Picture This Death
by Channel D
Summary: Tim McGee finds that work follows him, even to a comic book convention.
1. Draw Your Gun

Disclaimer: I own nothing of NCIS.

Summary: Tim McGee has work catch up with him at a comics convention.

- - - - -

_- About time you got here. Do you have the money?_

_- I have it. Suck toads with it and die, you –_

_- Oh, you're charming when you're mad. No, don't go away until I count it. You wouldn't want me coming back to you for more, would you?_

_- No! It's all here, I swear it! But don't make me give it to you out here, where someone might see. Let's get behind these trees._

_- - - - -_

NCIS Special Agent Timothy McGee stared at the man holding the large, powerful-looking gun. He met the man's eyes: purposeful, dangerous, merciless. Something was going to happen…

He turned the art page over. The page below it in the stack of penciled and inked art, some in color, clearly didn't follow what happened next in the story of adventurer Dwight McFright. "Where's page 4?" Tim asked, turning back to the powerful page 3.

The traffic of this, the opening day of Rockvillecon ("Maryland's largest comics convention!") , ebbed and flowed around him as he stood at the 'E' table. A small boy and girl pushed in front of him, their convention program books open, to get autographs from the artists and writers seated there. The spot Tim was at was labeled 'E11', a blip in the many spots of the six large rectangles of tables that made up Artists' Alley. There comics artists and writers sat, hawked the comic books they'd created, sold sketches and pages of art, and chatted with fans.

Breaking off his conversation with the guy on his left, the beefy, bearded man at 'E11' signed the kids' books with a big smile and a flourish, and then turned to Tim. "Page 4? Oh, that was sold a little while ago. It had a pretty girl on it. Pages with pretty girls go fast."

Tim admired the fact that the man said _pretty girl_ instead of some of the coarser terms he'd heard at other comics conventions. He looked at the man's fancy, hand-drawn tent card: _Dodo Runkel / artist / seeker of truth / Indeedeecee Comics / featuring Dwight McFright, all-terrain hunter._

The art was good; the man (appearing to be about Tim's own age) clearly had talent. Tim enjoyed looking through the pages of larger-than-life heroes and villains doing battle.

"Everything's for sale," said Dodo, piercing his reverie. "Discounts on purchase of four or more pages."

Tim paused. "Uh, I'm just looking to see what you do," he admitted. "I'm sorry for taking up your time."

"Oh, no; that's quite all right. Look as long as you like. But you look perplexed about page 3, there."

"Well, it's just…" _How to say it?_ "…your character, McFright. He's not really holding the gun right."

"Huh? What do you mean?"

"For a gun that size, a larger revolver, while it's _possible_ to shoot with one hand, for accuracy's sake he should use both hands. Particularly if he's expecting to fire more than once. The recoil, you know."

"Even with a super-light gun?" asked the dreadlocked man to Dodo's right at spot 'E12'. Like Dodo, he wore a Hawaiian shirt. He was _James Vaughn / artist & writer / wiseass / Sharkfin Productions_, according to his tent card.

"There's no such thing in this time," said Tim. "Not in revolvers that size. Laws of physics. A gun has to be reasonably heavy to work with bullets of a size to do the kind of damage needed in lethal force. Otherwise, you might as well use a BB gun."

"There you go again, Dodo; breaking the laws of physics," chuckled the bespectacled man on Dodo's left at E10, Kim Silberwald (_writer / raconteur /_ _Indeedeecee Comics_).

"Yeah, I've racked up tons of breaking-physics tickets. Sooner or later they're gonna revoke my permit to use gravity," Dodo sighed. He looked at Tim, then back at page 3. "I dunno. It may not be accurate, but I think it looks kinds cool."

James looked around for a suitable prop, then settled on a small packet of cheese and crackers, which he tossed to Tim. "Hey, pal. Show me how you'd hold that, if it were a gun."

It wasn't a gun, of course, but Tim gamely held the cracker pack vertically with both hands around it, left hand on top, fingers in position, feet in the proper stance, eyes focused on a foe in the distance.

"Whoa!" said James. "You know what you're talking about!"

"Unlike the rest of you," snapped the blonde woman around the corner of the table block from Kim, at spot 'E09'.

"Mind you own business, O'Hara," Kim retorted. She harrumphed.

James ignored this. "Come on around here," he beckoned to Tim. "I want to sketch your hands like that." He grabbed an empty chair and indicated an opening in the rectangle, next to Kim.

Tim obliged, while hoping he wouldn't regret this. He didn't want to make his knowledge _too_ evident. Today, a warm May Friday, he was off work and just another comics fan in t-shirt, shorts and sandals. Not an NCIS special agent.

"I'm James Vaughn," said the man, shaking his hand.

"Tim McGee. Pleased to meet you. I picked up issue #1 of your _Safari to Star Ten_ last year, and liked it a lot."

"Thanks! Issue #2 came out right after the con – darn those printers' schedules – and #3 will be out in July in time for ConAlexandria in July. I hope! But, anyway. Hold your hands like that again…are you paying attention, Dodo?"

"Yes, sir! I want to be a real artist, just like you, sir!"

"Shut up," James laughed. To Tim he said, "He's called 'Dodo' because he's a large, extinct, flightless bird."

"Hardly extinct," Dodo sniffed. "There's lots of me to go around. And not flightless – I did fly here from Indianapolis, after all." He paused for effect. "And I only had to touch down to rest every 200 miles. Nice to meet you, Tim. Are you enjoying the con?"

"Definitely. This is my third year at Rockvillecon, but just my second year concentrating on Artists' Alley. You indee creators really exhibit the imagination it takes to do something new."

"Well, I like to think everyone working in comics does," Dodo said kindly, "be it for the major companies like DC and Marvel, for little independent companies, or as self-publishers, like us. The difference between the big guys and us is that we can take more chances because we have less to lose."

"But, working for yourself – it, ah, doesn't pay very well, does it?"

The three creators laughed. Kim said, "You might say that for most of us, Artists' Alley is a Don't-Quit-Your-Day-Job support group. In my real life, I teach music at a high school. Dodo says he writes code, which makes him either a spy or an IT guy; he won't tell us."

"That's on a need-to-know basis," Dodo said mysteriously.

"And I'm the least respectable of all," said James. "I'm a…_lawyer_." The other two made a show of visibly shuddering.

_Don't volunteer it – Change the subject – Move it along…_ "Producing creative things, like comics, for the love of it – that's fabulous," said Tim. "You contribute to the arts. James, here's $3 for your issue #2. And Dodo? Kim? Which? Let me buy your latest issue. I may be back for more."

"Good enough, Tim. Thanks!"

Tim slipped the comic books into his backpack and headed out of Artists' Alley, past the aisles of booths of comic book retailers, his eye on the far wall of the ballroom, where the hotel had a stand selling sodas, coffee, snacks, and sandwiches. _It's getting crowded and warm in here…_

"Excuse me, uh…Mr. McGee, was it?"

It was Dana O'Hara, the attractive but acerbic artist/writer who sat around the corner from Kim. "Yes?"

"You, um, seem to know guns really well."

"I, er, uh…"

"Are you in law enforcement?"

_I'm in hell; that's where I am._ "Um…yeah."

She sighed, relieved. "Oh, good. I feel I can trust a comic book fan. Comics people are good people. I knew I had to tell _somebody_, but I was so afraid."

"Tell them what?"

"This morning," she took a deep breath, and then bent in close and whispered, "before the con opened…I think I saw someone being murdered."


	2. Comics are for Kids

"It was over there, in those woods." Dana pointed to the couple-acre plot of conservation land as they neared it. It was just two short blocks from the convention hotel. Moments ago they'd fortified themselves with iced coffees from the little café that abutted the woods.

"See, when I come to this con, I always hit this café in the mornings, before the con opens. Their coffee and muffins are better than the hotel's; cheaper, too. I sat at this table this morning –" she gestured toward a table under an umbrella where a couple now sat, enjoying iced tea and scones. "—and I saw two men over there at the edge of the woods. They looked like they were arguing, fighting. They moved deeper into the trees, and – and – after a few minutes, one came out, but the man in white didn't."

"Okay. Wait here a minute." Tim set down his iced coffee beside hers, and entered the woods. Her story sounded fantastic, but stranger things had happened on his watch. _Who was this man in white? The Pillsbury Doughboy? That guy from _Saturday Night Fever

_Oh. That was going to be my third guess._ He looked down at the body of a dead sailor.

Having sent Dana back to the con, Tim lurked in the shade of a table's umbrella. He knew that if he stayed in the sun he'd burn. Or worse – he'd freckle. He was starting his second cup of iced coffee when two NCIS vans pulled up, about 40 minutes after he'd called Gibbs, his boss. Gibbs, Tim's teammates Tony DiNozzo and Ziva David, and Chief Medical Examiner, "Ducky" Mallard, all spilled out of the vans, clad in NCIS gear.

Tony tossed Tim Tim's NCIS swoop cap. "Wouldn't want you to feel left out, Probie. Oh, wait! Isn't this a day off for you? Why do you go looking for bodies on your day off?"

"I didn't go looking for it; it found me," Tim sighed. He realized how that sounded, then sighed again, deciding it wasn't worth correcting.

"The body, McGee?" Gibbs said impatiently.

"Oh, uh, this way, boss." Tim lead them into the woods.

Ducky crouched beside the body while the others swept for evidence. "This unfortunate young man was stabbed," he announced. "Rather small but effective knife blade, it appears. Right into the heart."

"Time of death?"

"Around 4-5 hours ago. Make it around 8 to 9 a.m."

"That would go along with what Dana said," Tim mumbled.

"Who's Dana?" asked Ziva.

"An artist-slash-writer at the comics convention. The one who last saw the sailor."

"Why didn't she call the police?"

"I'm not clear on that. She said something about being afraid, but she thought she could confide in me."

Tony waved his arms, exasperated. "Look, McGee; you and your geeky and dorky friends, and your COMIC BOOKS, for the love of God, wouldn't know reality if it bit you in the butt! All of you are full of elf-this and super-that; wizards and vampires. None of you goofballs could make a credible witness in court in a case like this!"

"That's not true, Tony! One of the guys I met today –"

"I don't know how you can even admit that you like the stuff! Comics are for _kids, _McGee! I'm embarrassed for you!"

"Tony –" said Ziva.

"Can it, DiNozzo," Gibbs snapped. "Do you or do you not have an identity on the sailor?!"

Tony had forgotten the wallet in his hand. "Uh, yeah, boss. ID says Seaman George Latkis of Little Beach, Florida. Age 23. Organ Donor. Member NRA. AAA member since –"

"Stop. Ducky, take the body back to NCIS. McGee, take us to your witness."

McGee's face was turned away from them, and still flaming. "This way to the hotel, boss."

Tim brought Dana away from her table, and they joined Tim's team in the hotel coffee shop, where he made introductions.

"NCSI? What's that?" she asked, reading their caps.

"NCIS. Naval Criminal Investigation Service," Gibbs explained. "We're the law enforcement for the Navy and the Marines."

"Wow! So that's like the FBI or the CIA?"

"Sort of," Tony smiled his I'm-in-the-presence-of-a-knockout encouraging smile. "Just a different part of the alphabet soup."

"I guess I should have realized it would be something like that when Tim was showing some of us how a gun is held."

"MCGEE!!" Gibbs had gone purple.

"Boss, I didn't! I –" he patted his sides to show that he was gun-less. "I – I'll tell you later."

"I'll be expecting that!"

"I'm sorry," said Dana, looking confused and a trifle embarrassed. "I didn't mean to get Tim in any trouble. It's just that we artists try to bring realism to our artwork, so we jump at any chance to work from real objects. If one of you could show me your gun, I could –"

"Ms. O'Hara." Ziva's voice was polite but cold. "A firearm is neither a toy nor a prop."

"But –"

"No."

Gibbs changed the subject. "Ms. O'Hara, how close were you to the two men when you saw them arguing?"

"Oh, about – 50 feet, I guess."

"You were sitting at the café?"

"Yes. The table closest to the woods."

"Were there any other customers sitting outside, or loitering outside?"

"No. That's why I realized later I was probably the only witness."

"Would you describe the scene as noisy or quiet?"

"Pretty quiet, I guess."

"What were the men saying to each other?"

"I – I don't know. I couldn't hear them."

"They were arguing, you were 50 feet away, and it was quiet, but you couldn't hear anything?"

"Well, it wasn't perfectly quiet. It was on a street. Cars were going by."

"And you didn't call the police because…?"

"I didn't want to be tagged as a witness. I don't trust a lot of people, being a woman living alone. I wanted to wait until I came across someone I could trust. Like Tim."

"Describe the man who came out alive."

"Tall, about Tim's height. Long, dark hair. He was wearing a black polo shirt and jeans."

Gibbs turned to Tony. "Call the Rockville PD; see if we can borrow their sketch artist. I'll save Ms. O'Hara a trip to the Navy Yard."

Dana blinked. "But I _am_ an artist, Agent Gibbs. I can draw him."

The NCIS people looked at each other. "Then let's get started," said Gibbs.


	3. The Creators Speak

To Tony's consternation, Gibbs decided that while Dana sketched, the team would interview some of the people around Dana who might have some knowledge of the sailor. This meant entering the convention. Tony closed his eyes briefly and wished he'd had the foresight to take the day off. McGee tracked down the con chair and got day passes for the rest of his group (after they'd flashed their badges and declared their intention to come in, one way or the other.)

They entered a frenzy of light and color: brightly-covered comic books hung from low to high in display racks and filling countless boxes; toys; games; DVDs; t-shirts; and some old-time weaponry all vied for attention. The con attendees, some in costume, seemed to be having a great time browsing, buying, haggling.

Dana lead the way to Artists' Alley. "This is where I sit," she said. "Spot 'E09'."

"O'Hara, what have you done this time?" Kim sighed, only giving her a glance. Then he shot straight up. "Holy crap! NCIS!"

James threw his hands up. "I never inhaled! Honest!" Tim waved him down.

"Tim, you're a fed?" Dodo said in wonder.

" 'Fraid so, guys."

Dodo relaxed. "Well, I always expected there'd be some good folks in the government."

Tim smiled and made introductions, and explained why they were there. Gibbs set Tony to interview Kim; Ziva, Dodo; and himself, James. That left Tim at loose ends so he sat next to Dana and watched her sketch.

She opened her drawing pad and pulled off a fresh sheet of vellum, then picked up a soft pencil.

"Uh, you should use something darker," Tim said, hesitantly. "We're going to have to reproduce it so we can distribute it."

Dana paused. "Tim, are you an artist?"

"Uh, no…"

"Then kindly refrain from second-guessing me. I'll go over this in ink when I'm done." At his look of surprise, she softened her tone. "I'm sorry. Thinking that this guy is loose out there… that he may have seen me…"

"It's okay. Really. I understand. Do what works for you." Tim had half an ear cocked for the other conversations.

_Tony:_ Were you at that little café about two blocks down today? The place that advertises mmmmm! full tiramisus for take-out?

_Kim: _No, I had breakfast at home and drove straight here. I haven't been out of the hotel all day.

_Gibbs:_ Have you seen any sailors around here?

_James:_ Well, there used to be a guy who'd come dressed like Popeye.

_Ziva:_ Did Ms. O'Hara say anything to you when she saw you this morning?

_Dodo:_ Besides _Hey, Fatso!_? I don't think so.

Dana had taken Tim's concern for time to heart and had switched to a charcoal pencil to speed things up. Within 15 minutes, by the time the others were done interviewing, she had a presentable sketch, which she sprayed with fixative.

"Okay, I think we're done here," said Gibbs, leading his group out. "Come _on,_ McGee!"

"Uh, boss, this is a vacation day for me –"

"—And you've spent the last three hours of it doing work. Don't donate your time to the government, McGee. Come on back, and give me an amended leave slip."

The comics creators watched them go. "They think we're connected to that sailor's murder?!" Dodo asked, nervously.

"They're just pursuing leads," said James, though he looked grim.

"James, can you be my lawyer, if you're in jail with me?"

"Doubtful."

"You're all acting as guilty as sin," said Dana.

"Shut _up,_ O'Hara," said Kim.

_"You_ shut up."

- - - - -


	4. An Unusual Suspect

At NCIS, while Gibbs phoned their contact in the Navy to pass on the news of the sailor's death, Tim logged onto his computer and fidgeted, finding the agency's daily sludge of email less than interesting; finding much of everything less than interesting. Part of it, he knew, was that he felt out of place with what he was wearing: his MIT t-shirt and shorts were several levels below the agency standard 'business casual'. Even though Gibbs had told him not to worry; the Director wasn't in today and on a Friday afternoon, no one would notice what he wore, Tim still had an unreasonable fear that someone would ridicule him.

"Probie! Anyone ever tell you you have goooooooooorrrgeous knees?!"

_Thank you, God, for having me not carry my gun today and doing something I _might_ regret. _"What _is it_ you want, Tony?!"

"He's just jealous, McGee. Clearly jealous," said Ziva. She went back to her discussion with Ducky on the curious murder weapon.

"_Jealous?! Me?!"_

"McGee!" Gibbs barked, hanging up the phone. "Where's that witness sketch? We need to get it scanned and sent out!"

"Uh, right here, boss." Tim grabbed the rolled-up, rubber-banded paper and hustled to Gibbs' desk with it.

Gibbs unrolled it, looked, then gave Tim an eye.

Ziva looked over Gibbs' shoulder. "Our suspect is..._Severus Snape?!" _Indeed, the sketch was of a man with long, greasy, dark hair, clad in a dark polo shirt and bearing a striking resemblance to a certain fictional character.

Tony and Tim joined the gathering, and then Ducky. "Dear me. I wonder if Dumbledore knows that Snape's left Hogwarts?" he mused.

"McGee." Gibbs' tone was quiet, but it conveyed his impression that this was somehow all Tim's fault. "What do you know about this?"

"Uh...well, in book 6 –"

"_Out!!_ Go find Abby; see if she's got anything! We'll see if Ms. O'Hara can explain herself."

- - - - -

Tim entered Abby's lab, to find her dancing to her music as she worked. "Abby!!" he shouted over the music, then turned it down himself. "Got anything yet on the sailor?"

"Tim! Oh, hi! I thought you had today off."

"I did, but –"

She smiled teasingly. "Actually, Tim, we don't do Casual Fridays here."

Tim had half his mind on Dana..._Dana, so pretty._ Gibbs of course had taken down her phone number. Tim hoped Gibbs wasn't giving her a hard time. "Abby, you know, I've heard just about every joke there is today. I'd been looking forward to this day off and I wind up being dragged back into work. So don't you start! Just tell me what you have on this case!"

Stung, Abby took a step back. _Where did this attitude come from?_ She swallowed before replying. "Ducky gave me a sample of the tissue around the incision. There were tiny bits of a substance scattered through the wound. My tests show that the substance is paper; miniscule bits of it."

Tim frowned, Dana momentarily forgotten. "The paper came from a knife? Who uses a knife to cut paper?"

"Not ordinary paper, McGee. I checked the width of the incision, and though it's only a guess, due to the state of decomposition, but the edges seem to match this." She held up an implement.

"A box cutter? What kind of a weapon is that?!"

"Try boarding a plane with one in your carry-on luggage, and see what TSA says." Normally she would say this sort of thing with a smile and a little hop, but Tim was another person today, and she wasn't sure who. _Just what happened to him since yesterday_...

He sighed. "Anything else?"

"Not at the moment." She turned away, and he realized that he'd been dismissed. That wasn't like Abby. _Dana wouldn't do that_...

- - - - -

Ziva stopped herself, inches from slamming down the phone at her desk. She hung it up gently. "Ms. Kim O'Hara insists that the sketch is as close to accurate as she can remember. She said, quote, 'I can't help it if your suspect looks like someone well-known.'"

Tony set down the pen he'd been toying with. "Is she having us on? Or is she nutty and believes what she says?"

"And she's 'Dana'," said Gibbs. "Kim is one of the writers in that pack. Kim Silberwald."

The confusion showed on Ziva's face. "I thought 'Kim' was a feminine name, and my notes were just wrong."

" 'Kim' can be either a girl's name or a boy's name," said Tony.

"But 'Dana' – that is a masculine name, isn't it? I know I have heard of men named that."

"It can be either," said Tony.

"Surely 'Dodo' is masculine!"

"Ah...that's avian, actually."

Ziva shook her head. _What a strange country._

- - - - -

At Rockvillecon, Dana ended the cell phone call, and wrinkled her nose as she put the phone back in her purse.

"Trouble in Danaland, O'Hara?" asked Kim as he autographed a stack of program books for a beaming family of seven.

"That was NCIS. They has questions about the witness sketch I drew."

_Was she forgetting to be snide, or was she really providing information, for once?_ "What did you tell them?"

"That there was no mistake. The attacker _really did_ look like you, Silberwald."

Kim turned white. He could hear the clank of James' chair as he jumped to his feet, and felt Dodo's comforting hand on his shoulder.

When Dodo spoke, his voice was quiet. "Dana, that's not funny at all."

"Really? I thought it was hilarious." She gave them a sarcastic smile, and went back to the piece she'd been drawing for the con's charity auction.

The three men went back to what they were doing, and Dana caught bits of their mumbling..._Missing a few screws_..._Sick sense of humor_... She shrugged it off, and smiled to herself.

- - - - -

Tim gave the others Abby's findings. Gibbs didn't look like he'd forgiven him yet. _But _I _didn't write that book_..._if there's' anything to do with a book, _I_ get the blame_... He then had an idea, and phoned the base commander. Within minutes he had a lead to share.

"Boss, that sailor was headed for the comics con. His mates said he was a big comics fan, and always went to the local cons. Even took time off, when he could, to go to some of the really big cons – the ones that attract tens of thousands of people."

"Tens of thousands –!" Tony was dumbfounded.

"Now we're getting somewhere," Gibbs said. "Was he going to meet someone there? An artist? Writer? Seller? Another Fan? Someone there must know him!"

"Or – someone didn't want him to attend this year's con," Ziva said.

"Find out his connections! Hustle!"

But it was late Friday afternoon, and there wouldn't be much they could do before the weekend started. Tim drummed his fingers on his desktop, grasping for ideas. He hated to jump into a case and then have to leave it for a few days. _Who at the con knew a sailor? Who would want to _kill_ a sailor?_ He made a few phone calls that produced nothing; Googled the sailor's name and came up dry, and finally left to go home when the others did.


	5. Saturday at the Con

Saturday at Rockvillecon. Clad in t-shirt and shorts, he waited impatiently in line for the doors to open and admit the crowd of excited children and (in some cases) even more excited adults. _I _could _be doing other things today. Laundry. Haircut. Clean house_..._But on the other hand_...He noted with a glance (then a second and a third glance) a couple of very cute teenage girls dressed in skimpy costumes like anime heroines. One was Sailor Moon, he knew; the other one he couldn't identify. _Jailbait. Don't go there,_ he told himself, and looked away.

One poster on an easel announced that old-time serial actor Lou Borges would be at the con today, giving a talk and signing autographs. Another poster listed the times of the movies the con would be showing, and the panel discussions. _Not a bad line-up! Some of it, anyway._

At last the guards opened the ballroom doors, and the crowd flowed in. Knowing what he wanted to accomplish, Tony DiNozzo headed for the nearest booth selling old comic books. "Hey! Do you have any of those nutty old _Jimmy Olsen_ comics?"

- - - - -

Dodo was alone in the lower 'E' rectangle when Tim came up. The closest creator around was an artist at 'E14' who was working on a painting while his wife played with their toddler. Even Dana was absent; her wares apparently under the watch of the woman at 'E08'.

"Hi, Tim! Come around back and keep me company!"

"Where'd everyone go?"

"Break. I'll go when they get back."

Tim remembered Ziva's comments. "Can I ask where the name 'Dodo' came from?"

"I've had the nickname since grade school. I hate my real name. My mother is a saint, but the one thing she ever did wrong in her life was to give me that name; an old name from her family."

"Which is...?"

He looked a little pained. " 'Downy'. What kind of a name is that for a man; particularly one my size? 'Dodo' is much kinder. I've thought about getting my name changed legally, but I don't want to hurt my mom."

"And you live in Indianapolis? What brings you all the way here?"

"I grew up here. Mom moved back there, her hometown, after Dad died. Then she developed really bad arthritis a couple years ago and I moved in with her to help her out, since I can work from anywhere."

"Being a spy, or an IT guy."

"Yeah. I've heard all the jokes about comics people still living with their parents, but I don't mind; my mom's worth it. Someday, I hope, I'll find a nice girl and we'll have a barrelful of comics-loving kids, but for now, Life is pretty good to me."

Tim smiled appreciatively at the warmth in Tim's statements. Good people often made the world around them good. "So how did you meet up with Kim?"

"Through mutual friends. We've been working together for four years now. We get along well." Then his face turned grim, and he looked around before speaking again, this time in a low tone. "Kim's changed, though, recently. The story he's been writing for our book has been more violent, like Kim's lashing out at something."

He picked up a sketch he'd done on commission, and started vigorously erasing the remaining pencil lines that the inks hadn't covered. "As an artist, I've been studying people all my life. And what I've seen in him...I think, lately, he's been cheating on his wife. And Meggie doesn't deserve that; she's as sweet as they come. It's wrong, man. If the relationship's over, end it. Don't let your partner suffer."

Tim changed the subject. "If you guys don't get along with Dana O'Hara, why don't you move to another spot?"

"Oh, she's not so bad. Most of what she says is for show, I think. Both she and Kim have quick tempers; she likes to get his goat. She's really nice to the little kids who come up. And we like this location; we and James have been in this spot for years. So has she."

"Every year you go through this abuse?!"

Dodo laughed. "Yes, and at ConAlexandria, too. The ultimate love-hate relationship!"

- - - - -

Shortly after Tim left, James and Kim returned, as did Dana. "No break for you today, Lardo?" she said.

"I'm going now. Can I get you anything?"

"Bring her back a cup of hemlock," said Kim.

Dodo just laughed and left. He waved to Tony as the agent came to Artists' Alley.

Tony entered Dana's field of vision as she sipped from her bottle of water. "Agent DiNozzo!"

" 'Tony', please. I am totally off-duty." Which was _officially_ true... He grinned a sparkling grin.

"Tony, then. How's the investigation coming?"

"It's coming," he said, noncomittally. "So, these are your comic books? You wrote and drew them?"

"And inked and lettered them. And if they were successful, I'd color them, too. Actually, I'd probably pay someone to color them, to save time. They're $3 a copy, and I have all five issues of my current series here."

Tony picked up the latest issue and leafed through it. It featured dyspeptic-looking humans and elves, mainly in battle or posturing in anticipation of battle. _And here I thought elvish stories were cute and cuddly._ "Where do you get your ideas?" he asked, hoping she didn't get asked that too often.

But she looked surprised. "I – don't really know. They just come to me from somewhere."

"You seem to like elves."

"They're a people easily-accessible for the average reader; useful for showing a mirror on what it means to be non-human. My stories tend to feature strong women, human and elf, who can move between both societies."

"You don't do super-heroes."

"Not even under threat of death."

"Can I interest you in a coffee break?"

She gave him a pointed look. "Are you flirting with me, Tony?"

"Would you like me to be?" He grinned again.

"If you've moved out of the 1970s, you'll know that women are capable of getting their own coffee. Or –" she paused, "—are you here to check me out, because your partner met me yesterday, and you didn't want to miss an opportunity to make a move?"

He kept his smile up. "I think I'll just buy your issue #1," he said, reaching into his wallet. "You have a nice day."

- - - - -

"Well, sure, young fella; I'd be happy to personalize that strip to you! Seein' as you're buyin' it, and all!" Old Alfred Wheekin cackled as he first pocketed Tim's $50, then limbered up his signing hand. Wheekin, famed artist and writer on the _Sully's Air Force _comic strip that had run in over 300 newspapers for nearly 50 years until his retirement, was now nearly 90, but he still made it to the local comics shows. As he looked around for a signing pen, his wife and constant companion, now like a little wizened apple doll, fished out a Sharpie from his art supplies bag.

Tim was pleased with his purchase, the original comic strip panels that had appeared in the papers on August 12, 1949. He loved this piece; not an Air Force action shot, but one of Sully being confounded by the adept scheming of Lt. Taffy Tolliver, the girl he hoped to one day marry. "Make it out to–"

" 'NCIS'," said a cheery voice, one that made Tim wince.

"Tony!" Tim said sharply.

The old man looked confused. " 'NCIS'? 'Tony'? Which is it?"

"Make it out to—"

" 'Probie.' "

"Tony, stop that!" He turned to Wheekin. "Make it out to 'Tim'. Mr. Wheekin. T-I-M. Just that."

"I may be old, but I can still spell, young man!"

Standing his ground against his annoying coworker won out over Tim's well-bred respect for the older generation. "Tony, _what_ are you doing here?! After yesterday I didn't think even death itself could haul you back to a comics con!" Nonetheless, he could see that Tony wore a day-glow orange _Saturday Only_ convention badge. _Tony'd actually spent money to get in!_ Tim picked up the autographed strip, done on thick paper; his polite thanks to Wheekin tinged with his irritation on seeing Tony.

With an exaggerated _you-caught-me_ gesture, Tony smiled less-than-innocently. "I liked what I saw; I decided to come back.

Tim doubted that; Tony was up to something. "Well, why don't _you_ go over to that side of the room, and _I'll_ stay on this side of the room, and we'll both be happy."

"Probie, Probie, Probie. don't be that way. Come on; let's do lunch. On me. That's an offer I don't make often!"

- - - - -

_To be continued!_


	6. Tony Buys Lunch

The burger joint across the street from the hotel was swelling with the comics crowd at noontime. Tim and Tony had been lucky to snag a booth. Tony attributed it to the smile he had given the hostess.

"...no, see, Sully has been pursuing this girl, the lieutenant, for a long time," Tim was explaining as Tony examined the strip Tim had purchased. "He didn't know he was in love with her at first; only that he was attracted to her. She lead him on a chase. The readers apparently loved it. Wheekin would get hate mail anytime he introduced another woman, sometimes a spy, who would try to snare Sully. Everyone wanted Sully and Taffy to get married, but not too quickly. Romantic chases are fun, in stories."

"So did they ever get married?" Tony interrupted his own thoughts as a woman approached and stopped next to Tim. Tony put on a sunny smile. "Hi, I'll have the _American Idol _burger, easy on the –"

Ziva slapped his head with the menu she was carrying. "This isn't my station. Move over." She slipped in beside him at the booth.

Her day-glow convention badge reflected the light as she moved. Tim choked on his Coke. _"You_ came to the con today, too?! Are Gibbs, Ducky and Abby here as well?" _I love my job, but I wish my hobbies would stay_..._mine._

"I don't think so, McGee. We'll need another booth if they show up," Ziva said. "Have you ordered yet?"

"Not yet. Are you sure you're not our waitress?" Tony asked, hopefully. He was hungry. "And I'm buying only for McGee; not you. So don't get any ideas."

She couldn't figure that out, so she shrugged it off. "I have never been a waitress. I saw you two come in here, and I followed you."

"But what are you doing at the con?" Tim demanded. "I can understand _him_ being wasteful enough to drive up to Rockville to annoy me, but why did _you_ spend the money...?"

"NCIS will reimburse me," she said. "Gibbs asked me to come here." At her teammates' shocked looks, she added, "Crime scene, remember? I'm going around to all the creators and sellers and asking them if they knew Seaman Latkis."

"Why didn't Gibbs ask _me_ to do that?!" Tim sputtered. He then had to hold in his anger as the real waitress arrived to take their orders. Continuing: "He knew I'd be here today! And I certainly wouldn't have minded earning the comp hours!" As a relatively new hire, he didn't accrue vacation hours as quickly as he'd like.

Ziva caught his eyes. "Because comics shows are one of your passions, McGee. You can't be as objective here as I can."

"I can, too!" he retorted, while knowing that wasn't a useful comeback.

"Probie, listen," Tony said with a near-smirk. "Everyone you've met at the con, you've liked, right? And everyone else is just a friend you haven't met yet, right?"

Tim felt the burn on his face. Tony had it nailed; comics was part of Tim's ideal world, and he would be hard-pressed to think badly of anyone in the comics business.

"Don't let it upset you, McGee. Just enjoy your weekend and pretend I'm not at the con," Ziva said kindly. "I don't know how you can pretend Tony's not around, though. Good luck with that."

"Har har," said Tony, and Tim laughed for the first time that day. Thinking about it, he was now glad after all that Ziva was there, and that he could have fun and let _her_ do the work.

When their food arrived, Ziva ate her fruit salad quickly and left, saying she still had a lot of people to talk to and she really hoped to squeeze in a few minutes of her own with that old-time weapons seller.

As Tony and Tim waited for their desserts – homemade ice cream – to arrive, Tony drummed his fingers on the table's formica top, hesitant to say what he needed to say. "Probie – about your girlfriend –"

"Dana? She's not my girlfriend; I just met her yesterday. Well, I saw her here last year, but I didn't talk to her, I was –"

Tony raised a hand to stop Tim's babbling. "Don't be so quick to throw her away, McGee. It's not like you have a stable full of women to choose from, is it?" He saw the blush again on Tim's face. _Any mention of women, any little thing at all, and he blushes! Mention women's underwear and he'd probably pass out. Sheesh!_

Tim lowered his hot face over his glass of Coke. "Well, not everyone's you, Tony."

"I know. It takes a lot of hard work to be me. But what I'm trying to say is –" Here came the ice cream, and the waitress winked at Tony, not Tim, which made what he had to say harder. "What I'm _trying to_ say is, I don't think Dana O'Hara is the right girl for you, Probie. She –"

Tim half-rose. "You _bastard! _You hit on her, didn't you?!"

"No!! Well, maybe. But she wasn't interested. I –"

"Tony!! You _knew_ I liked her!!" Tim fell back, his eyes stinging. _I will _always_ lose out to Tony..._

"McGee! Listen to me! Yeah, maybe I acted on my girl-chasing instincts, which are normally pretty sharp, mind you; but I was mainly checking her out for _your_ sake! Haven't you seen all the anger she exhibits with other people?! Her put-downs and snide asides?! And yet she's sweet to you, a guy she just met? What does that tell you?!"

"That she likes me, and not you!"

"What?! No!! Open your eyes, McGee! She's two-faced. She's playing you like a violin...Tim, I don't want to see you get hurt."

What might have been a kind moment was marred when, after a pause, Tony felt he had to add, "...'cause when you get hurt, you get those big, sad, basset hound eyes, and you drive me crazy with your moping!"

"Dana's not like that! Maybe she sees qualities in me that you don't!"

"I hope so, McGee," Tony sighed. He didn't add that, in his experience, relationships weren't like that.


	7. Why Would Anyone Kill a Guy That Nice?

The new center of Tim's universe looked up as she finished her piece for the charity auction, having just added a splash of color with a red Sharpie. "Silberwald – isn't that the NCIS chick, over there at the 'D' tables?" Her voice was low; not wanting the agent to hear her.

Kim turned his head and frowned. _"You_ talked with NCIS longer than we did yesterday, O'Hara. What do _you_ think?"

She swore at him. "I just want to be certain. What is it she wants here?!"

"Cal Ortiz told me she's asking everyone if they'd seen that sailor here in past years. She has a picture she's showing."

Dana froze. "Not of the body!"

"Of course not, idiot! His Navy file picture, or something."

She relaxed. "Well, NCIS has already talked to us. She'll skip over us. So you're not going to jail, Silberwald! Isn't that nice?!"

"Dana!" Dodo complained.

"What? You want to go in his place, Runkel?"

Dodo turned to James. "She called me by my name! She _likes_ me!"

James didn't even look up. "She _likes_ you?! Hell, coming from her, that sounded like a marriage proposal, man!"

- - - - -

Ziva tracked down Tony and Tim late in the afternoon and ushered them upstairs to a quiet grouping of couches in the hotel lobby. She patted fondly the well-wrapped scimitar she'd purchased. "I wanted to bring you up-to-date before I go. You know that Abby and I will be going to that Women in Federal Law Enforcement conference next week, and we won't be back until Thursday."

"You're not coming in to work at all on Monday?"

"Just for a half hour or an hour; long enough to type up my notes. We have an 11 o'clock flight to Pittsburgh. Anyway – of the roughly 90 people I talked to, 21 remembered the sailor, particularly since he came in uniform last year. He liked collecting autographs and commissioned a number of sketches. He was also fond of the tiny sketches, done on what they called –" she checked her notes, "—'cigarette card stock'. These are about 1" by 2"; artists will often do a sketch on these at no charge because they're so small." She looked wry. "But some artists told me that they won't sign these little sketches, since they didn't want him to turn around and sell a –" Another glance at her notes. "—'free-buy?'"

"Freebie," Tim and Tony chorused.

"Freebee," she murmured, wondering what bees had to do with it. "And he would buy comics; mostly older _Dark Horse_ and _Image_ comics. Those are comics companies."

"Anyone mention having a grudge against him? An argument? A deal gone bad?" asked Tony.

"No. And it's odd. He was very... 'personable', is that the word? He liked to get to know the people here, and their lives outside the con. One woman...let me see...Lynn Mancini, at booth 510, 'Mancini's Comic Emporium', said he asked about her kids every year. Said he's done so for at least four years. Another seller, R.R. Small, at booth 130, 'Wildman T-Shirts', said the same thing. Latkis always asked about his wife, who has MS. Said she was in his prayers."

"So why would anyone kill a guy who was that nice?" Tim mused.

"Wrong place at the wrong time?" suggested Tony. "Maybe he wasn't the target after all."

"People don't just wander into woody areas for no reason when they're on their way somewhere," said Ziva. "And stop before you say something uncouth about what men do, Tony. Why would he have to, ah …'answer a call of nature' just two blocks from the hotel? Besides, Ms. O'Hara saw him arguing with someone."

"Maybe the other guy had to go, too. Maybe they were arguing over a choice of trees."

Ziva threw up her hands. _Boys are the same the world over. _"If that's the case, I don't want to be the person to write up that part of the report."

"I'll delegate that to our Probie."

Tim only snarled at him. "Anything else, Ziva?"

"No, I think that is, ah, it. I want to do one more circle of the con and then I'll leave. What a fun, colorful place!" She rose and left.

"Too bad you had to spend $15 just to come and annoy me, Tony," Tim sighed. _And to try to steal my girl._

Tony stretched. "Believe it or not, Probie; I read comics as a kid. And I found some old favorites here, even though they dented my credit card, ouch. Did you ever read this crazy run of _Jimmy Olsen_ comics? See, the focus was less on him being 'Superman's pal' and more on Jimmy's own bizarre ideas. Like, he had a sideline going as an investigator, and he'd work undercover – usually dressed like a woman! They're hilarious!"

"I've read those. Did you get the one where he's shown to have nothing in his closet but dresses? Veeeeeerrry strange!"

Tony laughed so hard he thought his sides would split. "No! Do you know the issue number?"

"I might be able to track it down. He also, in those years, spent a lot of time communing with gorillas. And then there was the really weird period where he was _Jimmy Olsen, Turtle Boy_. Oh, _do not_ go there!" he said, laughing.

"Well, it's certainly better than that dreck companies are putting out today."

"Okay. You've crossed a line now. Unless you have actually_ read_ modern comics, you really don't know what you're talking about!"

"I don't have to read them, McGee. I have eyes! Today here I've seen a lot of the comic book covers and the painted artwork. Guys with teeny tiny heads on top of bodies that steroid makers can only envy. Women with, uh, uh, ..." he searched his mind for an only mildly offensive term, " ..._racks_ that could only hold up like that in weightless outer space. Guns so big that it should require a derrick to lift them. And on and on."

"I'll grant that there are some comics like that. And that some readers do like that stuff. But many people, like me, choose—"

"And that's where your argument falls apart, McGee! The mainstream comics reader is still a 15-year-old boy, who probably has yet to kiss a girl, and who gets on this power trip with these insanely-powered or armored super-heroes! Why, oh why, are you continuing to identify yourself with this immature class of losers?!"

Tim jumped to his feet. "That's it! Just leave me alone, Tony! I don't want to see you until Monday! _I don't want to see you then, either, but that can't be helped._

"Fine. Whatever. I was about to leave soon, anyway." They went off in different directions.


	8. Sunday

On Sunday Tim arrived at the con a little wet, like most of the attendees: a thunderstorm was pounding Rockville. The rain gushed and gushed for over two hours. It let up in time for lunch, and the pavement steamed as the sun came out; the steam seeming as wet as the rain had been.

Tim and Dodo split a pizza in the hotel coffee shop. Tim found Dodo eyeing him. "What?"

"You ever do any writing, Tim?"

"Er, some, yeah."

"You look like someone … I think that writer, Thom E. Gemcity..?" At Tim's embarrassed grin, Dodo laughed. "Ha! I knew it! When I thought you resembled those photos I'd seen, I wondered…and I've always been fond of anagrams. Thom E. GemcityTimothy McGee."

"Guilty as charged."

"Well, I liked your book. It was a fun read. You're good at creating believable characters."

_No, not really. I didn't exactly create them. _Tim just smiled his thanks.

- - - - -

When Dodo went back to his Artists' Alley table, Tim sat in the hotel lobby for awhile, lost in thought. The last day of a con was always sad; one was tired, true, but it was a let-down that there'd be no con Monday morning. The con would pick up its tents (so to speak) and steal away in the late afternoon today, and the hotel ballroom would likely be cleaned and reset for a wedding or some mega-boring business function.

_I hope Ziva and Abby enjoy their conference_..._I know neither of them really wanted to go, but the Director "randomly" selected them_..._I owe Ziva for doing all that work yesterday._ He decided he'd offer to fill in for her the next time she – but he couldn't think of any conferences she'd go to that he could get into without borrowing one of Jimmy Olsen's dresses. _Maybe comics _were_ more fun back then_...

_Almost 2 o'clock._ The con would close at 4:30. _I should leave soon and go grocery shopping_... Nonetheless, he was drawn back to the ballroom, where kids still flocked, wide-eyed; where dads relived their childhoods; where even moms were taken with certain women-themed comics (a fairly new development). And of course, where die-hard fans like him rode each wave of popularity, sometimes only waiting for one fad to die out to make way for something better.

He bought the remaining collections of the _Sully's Air Force_ strips that he didn't have, talked to a few more creators, and stopped to watch an artist do elaborate scrollwork cutting on a new tent card with a blade. The charity auction wound down, and he saw that, too; wincing with the crowd at some of the steals people got, and cheering the pieces that went for big bucks. He thanked some of the elderly creators – a few appeared to be even older than Wheekin – for coming to the con, and hoped (keeping this part to himself) that they'd still be around next year.

But there was an elephant in the room. The lure of Dana O'Hara, just 40 feet away, was so strong as to be almost paralyzing. He found he could neither leave the room, nor approach her. _Just ask her out. What's the worst can she say?_ But he knew he didn't want to know that answer. When one is as shy as Tim was, rejection was the most frightening thing in the world. He would rather have a dozen guns pointed at him. Guns, he understood. Women baffled him. _Come on, McGee; just ask her for her phone number. Or at least her email address._

Somewhere he found a spring in his step, and was able to approach her. Slowly. Slowly. She was signing program books for two young children; drawing a boy elf beside her signature for the boy, and a girl elf for the girl. She looked radiant. _She'd probably be a terrific mom_...

She then saw him approach, and knocked her unopened water bottle over, sending the contents of her opaque bag of artist's tools, on the lip of her table, flying.

"Let me help you!" Tim himself had flown to the site of the spill, and was down on his knees in a flash.

"No! No, really, Tim; that's not necessary..." Dana was clearly flustered; probably embarrassed at her clumsiness (which to Tim was only endearing). But she snatched up her items – pens, pencils, erasers, T-square, and so on – and shoved them back in her bag as quickly as she could, ignoring Kim's arch smile. "But thanks."

"Listen, Tim," she continued, as if considering something. "When are you headed out? Are you interested in getting dinner?"

_Am I?! Am I?!_ Afraid that if he spoke his voice would be a squeak, Tim only nodded and smiled.

"Well, of course it's still early yet. But I've got quite a drive ahead – I live west of Hagerstown – and I want to get home before it's full dark, so I'm bolting as soon as the con closes. I know a good place about half an hour from here. We'd be eating then around 5:30. That's not too early for you?"

He shook his head.

"Okay, then. I'll meet you in the lobby just after 4:30." She gave him a smile that, if possible, outshone the one she'd given the kids.

And as for Tim – World War III could have gone off in the ballroom, and he would never have noticed it. _Life is so incredibly good_...!


	9. Disaster

Tim snapped back awake. _Why am I so drowsy? And where are we going again? _The car he was riding in tore along twisting roads through hills; the headlights only illuminating chance pockets of road and woods. Black upon black of the great pit of night; far from any city lights.

His head felt like one large cotton ball. There were sounds that were probably words, but it required too much effort to make them out.

Someone was asking him to do something. The driver; it must be. A map and a penlight landed in his lap. The fog around his brain lifted momentarily and he heard, _Find the entrance to Interstate 81 to Roanoke. _Oh. So we're going south, into southern Virginia. He didn't remember why they were doing this, but that didn't seem important.

_Bend over. Look closely at the map._

He obliged –and then felt a crushing weight on his back, like a meteor had hit him and shot through his body. Cold and pain; horrible pain rushing through him. Hard to breathe; unable to fill his lungs. His eyesight went; then sounds around him turned to fuzz, and he coughed and coughed; blood working its way up his windpipe and out of his mouth.

He could no longer think; didn't recognize the sensation of being caught by the seatbelt as the car jerked to a stop. His seatbelt was unfastened somehow, and he was pushed out of the car. His head hit the curb. A kick from somewhere, and he started rolling, down, down, down the steep hill into the woods. The car sped away.

Finally he hit a fallen log, and there he lay, unmoving and unconscious, where no one would ever see him.


	10. In the Woods and In Trouble

Tim came to with milky light soft on his face – the just-past-full moon, nosing through the trees. _Where am I?_ He hurt, and was in a strange position, on his back with one arm over what felt like a log, but the innate need to orient himself outweighed his other concerns.

_What am I doing here, in...a forest? How did I get here?_

He tried to move but found that twisting gave him a horrible pain; likewise, his head hurt a lot. _Did I fall? It feels like I'm on a hill; did I fall down that?_

_I must be on a field assignment; why else would I be in woods at night?_ "Boss?" he called. "Ziva?...Tony?" There was no answer; just the drone of insects and the hoots of an owl. _They could be having a laugh, having seen me trip and fall._

Swallowing a little embarrassment, he tried again, a little louder. "Boss?...Ziva?...Tony?...Guys?...I need help...Please...I think I'm hurt..."

Nothing. If the team was out there, they weren't close by. Tim reached into his pocket for his cell phone, but it wasn't there.

_How is it that I got called on an assignment late at night, and I can't remember it?_..._I went to that con, Rockvillecon. I came home and watched _Hex_ on BBC America. Why don't I remember being called out on assignment?_

_Why don't I remember how I got here?_

_Why is _Hex_ the last thing I remember?_

He touched his aching head, drew his hand away, and sniffed it. _Mud, and I think blood. I must have hit my head on something. I probably have amnesia._

Carefully Tim stretched his limbs, one by one. They were sore, but it didn't feel like there were any broken bones.

_If this wasn't a field assignment, what on earth brought me out here after being comfy at home, watching _Hex?_ Did I get in an accident?_ _Where's my car?_

He heard a car go by, but couldn't tell the direction the sound came from. The moonlight only appeared here and there, limiting what he could see. There must be a fairly heavy tree cover.

_If this _is_ an assignment, they may be looking for me._ He called again. "Boss!...Tony!...Ziva!...I'm over here!"

_I wish they'd come!...Except maybe for Tony. I'm still pissed at him, for, for_..._something he did. Today? What was it he did?_

His hand brushed his shirt. _Huh? Why am I wearing a t-shirt, and_..._and_..._shorts for work?_

_I _must_ be at work. I wouldn't go out in woods this late, alone._ But with grim realization he knew that merely _wanting_ his team to be close by could not produce them.

_It doesn't matter _why_ I'm here. The important thing is, I need to get out._

He rolled over onto his stomach, and screamed with the sudden pain. It whipped his back in waves; after seemingly an eon, subsiding to an ache. Standing was out of the question. The best he could hope to do was crawl. But which way?

Another car went by, somewhere.

_If I fell and rolled down here, chances are I started from a road. The road must be up this hill._ Cautiously he raised his left arm and grabbed a tuffet of grass on the upward slope, pulling himself up a little ways. But then a spasm hit his back, and in the pain he vomited.

_I can't do this; I can't..._

"_Boss!!"_ he cried again, in desperation. _"Help me!"_

_What would Gibbs say, if he were here? He'd say, 'C'mon, McGee!' and he'd turn away and walk off with the others. expecting me to follow. That's all._

Tears ran down Tim's cheeks at the thought of abandonment, and then he thought again. _No. He might say that at first, but when he saw I wasn't following, he'd come back. He'd come back for me. He would always keep his team together._

The thought was so strong that he could almost see Gibbs next to him, pale, ghostly in the moonlight.

-_Problem, McGee?_

"I can't get up the hill, boss. I'm hurt."

_-You can do it, Tim._

"I need help..."

_-I can't physically help you. But you can do it. You've got it in you. Just one movement at a time._

Gibbs, Tim knew, was a motivator. That was part of what made him a great leader. "Every time I move, it hurts. Hurts bad."

_-I know. And we'll get you help. But you have to get up this hill first. Come on, one movement._

Tim grabbed another tuffet, this time with his right hand. The mud beneath him squeeched as he rolled over that, grass, small stones, and acorn caps. He gasped as his back thundered its protest.

_-That's good! Do it again._

And again he hauled himself, and again. It wasn't getting easier, but he could do it.

­_-Keep going, Tim! You're making progress!_

A few more moves, and Tim stopped, his back savage and his head pounding like a bass drum. "I – I can't, boss. I can't go on."

­_-Yes, you can. But rest a moment, first. _

Tim was panting, dew from the grass dribbling into his mouth; cool in his throat. "No. I – I'm sorry, boss. I've nothing left."

_-No, that's when you need to find your hidden reserves, Tim. You can do it. I'll be here every step of the way for you. Come on; one movement at a time._

Hidden reserves? He closed his eyes and felt, below his bleeding head, below the agony of his back, down to his still-working knees. _My knees! Push! Push!_ And slowly he moved upwards by pushing with his knees, only using his arms for balance.

_-Good, Tim! Good!_

Over and over...another car, no, that sounded more like a tractor trailer, went by, the sound loud. He was getting close to the road!

_-Almost there, Tim! Keep going!_

He struggled as the slope changed a little, but then banged his wrist on concrete. _The curb! I'm at the road!_

_-Great job, Tim! I knew you could do it!_

"Thanks, boss," Tim said with a cross between a cough and a joyful laugh. He leaned on the curb, draping himself over it, and then allowed himself to pass out again.


	11. Where's McGee?

The soft clatter of Ziva's rapid typing reverberated in their part of the squad room early Monday morning. Tony stared at the image of Seaman Latkis' Navy ID on his monitor, while also keeping an eye on Gibbs, who looked up at the wall clock every few minutes to scowl.

"_Where is McGee?!" _Gibbs asked no one. The agent was now officially 40 minutes late for work. There had been no phone call nor email from him. This wasn't like him.

When Gibbs left his desk to do something, Tony leaned toward Ziva. "So, where do you suppose he is?"

"Not listening, Tony. Typing," she said, her eyes only on her notes from Saturday.

"Well, I think he's struck a deal to turn _Deep Six _into one of those big comic books – a 'graphic novel'. I hope he gets a good artist."

Ziva paused. "I will hunt him down and kill him." Then she resumed typing.

Gibbs was back, with a look that might make the wall clock stop. "I'll phone him again, boss," Tony offered. Tim might still be mad at him, but he'd probably take Tony's gibes over a wrathful phone call from Gibbs any day. But there was still no answer to his call.

Again Gibbs walked off. _Why does he never time his wanderings this right when _I_ need something for myself?! _Tony wondered. On the pretext of reading what she was typing, Tony sidled over to Ziva's desk.

"Still typing, Tony!"

In a low tone, Tony said, "You don't suppose McGeek and his lady friend ..."

"What?"

"...are off doing the mattress mambo?" He waggled his eyebrows.

"The _what?_... Never mind, I think I get that. So what if they are?"

"Well, someone should tell him that it's Monday, and he should get his butt in here. We _do_ have Dana O'Hara's cell phone number on file..."

They reached for their cell phones simultaneously. "Oh, no, no, no," Ziva said. _"I'm_ making the call."

"Why _you?_"

"Because _I'll_ do it with tact, and _you_ just want an opportunity to embarrass McGee!"

Tony laughed. "Well, yeah! That's part of the fun of it all!"

"You are such a –!"

"We'll duel for it. Rock-paper-scissors. On the count of three." They each put one hand behind their back. "One...two..._three!"_

Ziva laughed triumphantly as her 'paper' trumped Tony's 'rock'.

"Damn," he said softly, and at her beckoning, handed over his phone as insurance that he wouldn't cheat and call anyway.

_He always does the rock,_ she smiled to herself as she dialed her phone, and let Tony in close to listen. "Ms. O'Hara? This is Officer David of NCIS. I'm sorry to call you this early."

"That's okay, Officer David. I was just about to leave for work. What can I do for you?"

"I'm calling about Timothy McGee. He hasn't come in to work today and hasn't called us, so we're a little concerned. When did you last, ah, see him?"

"Hmmm. Well, if you're calling people from the con, then I'm probably the last one to have seen him yesterday. He and I went out to dinner after the con; to a place a little north of Rockville. Grady's Barbecue, just off route 270. Then we went our separate ways...I hope nothing's happened to him!"

Ziva thanked her and hung up. "So she hasn't seen him since early evening."

"What? I was too busy listening for the sound of creaking bedsprings in the background." He grinned.

She sighed and eyed him. "Give it a retch, Tony."

"You mean 'rest'."

"Hmm...no, I think 'retch' sounds better there."

"DiNozzo! Let Ziva finish her work! Call McGee again!"

Tony retrieved his phone from Ziva. She glanced worriedly at her computer's little corner clock, and her fingers almost became blurs.

Voice mail again. This time Tony murmured into his phone, "Probie, it's Tony. Gibbs is on the warpath 'cause you're not here. You'd better get in here fast, and, oh, maybe break an arm on the way so you'll get some sympathy. Bye-eee!" He clicked his phone shut. "Still no answer on his cell, boss."

Gibbs sighed, then said, "Ziva, don't you have a plane–?"

"I'm done, and I'm leaving!" She saved her report, logged off, and sped out with a goodbye wave, her suitcase in tow.

Tony opened Ziva's report on his own computer, and read through it without really concentrating on it. After about 15 minutes, he said, "Boss, I could go over to McGee's apartment. Make sure he's not sick, or injured, or something."

"You _did_ call his landline phone, and not just his cell phone?"

"He gave up his landline phone over a year ago, boss. He just has the cell now."

Gibbs shook his head. _Young people look at technology in an entirely different way._ "Maybe later. I only have you here, and we may get called out on assignment."

When 10:30 came and there still was no McGee, Gibbs was about to signal to Tony to head for McGee's place, when the Director came up to them, a scribbled note in her hand. She looked serious. "Jethro, McGee—"

"He's not here, if you're looking for him, Jen." He could feel his knuckles tightening on his desk. "And he hasn't called or emailed. When he shows up, I'd better lock down my firearms!"

She flinched at the harsh words, then glared at him. "Don't dig yourself into a position you might regret, Jethro. As I started to say, the Virginia State Police called. McGee is in surgery in a hospital near Elkton. He was found by a roadside, stabbed—"

They almost bowled her over, in their race to get out; Gibbs snatching the paper from her hand as he ran.

- - - - -

_To be continued..._


	12. Stop Pacing!

"DiNozzo, stop pacing, or _I swear I'll shoot your feet off!_"

With a grin, Tony stopped in his tracks. "Empty threat, boss. You said that two hours ago. _And_ yesterday. _And_ the day before that!" He then again paced the hospital room, pausing only to gaze out the window at the rolling, green hills, dappled in passing shadows by the puffy clouds forming in late-morning convection.

Gibbs looked down at his fingernails. "Every man has his breaking point, DiNozzo," he said casually. "Do you really want to find mine?"

Tony considered, then sat down and crossed his restless legs. And recrossed them. And recrossed them.

Feeling the waiting-game frustration, Gibbs sighed. He turned his head and gazed at Tim, still slumbering in his hospital bed under a snake's nest of tubes, oblivious to all. _Three days_..._three days…_

He glanced at Tony, sitting across the room, picking up again one of the comic strip collection books that had come from Tim's backpack...likely a Sunday purchase at the comics convention, Tony had said. Gibbs had an urge to tell him to be careful with Tim's book, but he saw that Tony had it barely cracked open and was holding it gently.

_Waiting is so hard. There are many unpleasant parts of the job, and this ranks up there. Not knowing_... He ran a hand through his hair and shook the kinks out of his neck. _There's no right answer here. Go or stay?_ "DiNozzo, I think I'll go back to NCIS for awhile. You coming?"

Tony didn't look up. "Nah, I'm fine here. You go on."

"You know, the hospital will call us when there's news."

"I know." But he did get up, and set the book down on his chair. "I think I'll get a soda before you go. Hold the fort down for a minute, will you?"

The room door flew open, and Ziva burst in. She shoved Tony out of her way and began screaming at Gibbs. _"__Tisaref be evadon!_ [Burn in hell!, _"Chel'at ha'min ha'enoshi!"_[Scum of the earth!, and more such phrases.

"Hello to you, too, Ziva!" said Tony, startled. "Is Abby storming up behind you? Is she parking the catapult? Did the hospital make you leave your pitchfork and flaming torch at the front desk?"

Ziva hurled a choice expression at him, then turned her invective back to Gibbs.

Gibbs had rarely seen her in tears, but ones glistened in the corners of her eyes now. He rose and held out his arms to her. She let herself be embraced, and let loose a few of those proto-tears, while her verbal assault continued, though much more quietly.

"You know I don't understand Hebrew," he said softly, "but I can guess what you're saying. And you have a right to be mad at me."

She switched to English, sniffling. "There was a note tacked onto my monitor when I got into work this morning. From the Director. It said to come to her office before I did anything. Abby was there when I got there. She was already both crying and furious. The Director told us McGee was stabbed sometime over the weekend. _Why,_ Gibbs?! _Why_ didn't you call us and tell us about McGee?!"

"What could you have done, Ziva? Sat here and watched a man sleep, like DiNozzo and I?"

"_Abby and I should have been here!!"_

"No, you were representing NCIS at a meaningless but politically-necessary conference. We needed you two _there._ McGee's condition has been largely unchanged since he got out of surgery Monday. There was nothing you could have done for him by being here." He sighed. "It was a hard decision with no right answer. I know you two _think_ you would have wanted to know, but it would have torn you to pieces to sit on that knowledge in Pittsburgh for three days."

"Hey, how was your meaningless conference, anyway? Did you do any meaningless networking?" DiNozzo asked, cheerfully.

Ziva ignored him. "McGee's been unconscious since he was found, right? When is he going to wake up?"

"When he's ready," Gibbs said simply. "When he's ready."

_Which may be never, _Tony thought glumly._ They haven't ruled that out…_

"So Abby didn't come with you?"

"She wouldn't come. She said she was too worried and too mad. She mentioned having had a little fight with McGee when she last saw him, and she feels guilty about that, too. I didn't press her. If we had come in the same car, with all that anger we might run off the road!" She stomped in frustration.

Tony grinned playfully. "I think someone needs another hug!"

"_Stom ta'peh!"_ [Shut up! "Do you have any idea what it means to _care_ about someone, DiNozzo?! _I _care about my teammates. And that includes caring about _you_... most of the time. Do you ever think about anyone other than yourself, _ya chatichat hara _[you piece of s?!

"_I do so care!"_ Tony yelled back.

"_Stop it, both of you, or I'll bang your heads together!" _Gibbs bellowed. There was sudden silence, but glaring eyes all around. Gibbs said, "The best cure for hard-headedness is lunch. Shall we get pizza? What do you want on it? I want sausage and onions."

"Pepperoni."

"Just mushrooms."

"Double pepperoni."

"Wait – who said 'double pepperoni?"

They looked around.

"McGee?!" "McGee?!" "Probie! _You're awake!!!"_

They ran to his bedside. His green eyes were sunken and his face was lined and pale, but he was definitely their McGee.

"You just now woke up?" said Gibbs. It was both a question and a statement. "Did our yelling do that? I'm sorry...no, hell, I'm not sorry at all! _You're awake!"_

"I heard Ziva swearing. I recognized the phrases. My freshman year at MIT, there was a guy in the across the hall in the dorm who was from Israel. He could swear up a storm! When sailors from the Israeli Navy visited Boston, they would come see Ehud to take lessons."

"You are making that up," accused Tony.

Tim only grinned. "Say, Ziva, what about the phrase –"

"Oh, no, McGee! That's really dirty! Don't even ask."

"But you don't know what I was going to say!"

"Was it dirty?"

"Well...yes."

"Well, there then. I'm not passing on dirty phrases to you." She nodded, her point made. _I can read them all like rooks now_..._Is that expression right? It must be. It's alliterative._ "So, tell me everything! I'm coming into this from out of the cold," she said to all of them.

They parsed that, and figured they knew what she meant to say. But Tim looked at her, puzzled. "But I just saw you this weekend. Don't you have a conference to go to tomorrow? Monday?"

"We're back, McGee. Just got back last night."

At Tim's look of confusion, Gibbs said gently, "Today is Thursday, Tim. You've lost a couple of days. You were pretty sick for awhile. We were worried. But it looks like you're going to be fine now."

"A couple of –!"

"We'll tell you everything we know, and you can tell us what you know, but first let's get the doctor in here to check you over. Just rest. And I should call the Director and pass on the good news."

"Yeah! The Nationals _won_ a game! They beat the Padres!"

"Shut up, DiNozzo," said Gibbs. "The Director can track baseball by herself if she wants to." He turned to Ziva as he pulled out his cell phone. _Thank God this hospital doesn't have a no-cell-phone regulation._ _Stupidest thing, if you ask me. Never scientifically proven._ "Was 'shut up' one of the phrases you used?"

" '_Stom ta'peh', " _Ziva and Tim chorused.

"The doc's on his way," said Tony, hanging up his own phone.

"I shouldn't stay long, beyond pizza," said Ziva. "I really just drove here to swear at Gibbs. But I do want to hear what happened."

"Then pull up a chair, my dear, and we'll throw another log on the fire," Tony grinned. "And we'll roast marshmallows and get all comfy, and we'll turn down the lights and scare each other with ghost stories, and then we'll do each other's hair, and –"

Ziva turned to Gibbs. "Was he this wound up when I left for Pittsburgh on Monday?"

"Hard to tell. He's always been peculiar."

Tony didn't object, for once. He knew he was giddy. _McGee was awake!_


	13. Reviewing the Attack

The doctor came and went, finding Tim in relatively good shape, considering. He upped the pain killers and blanched at the thought of double pepperoni pizza so soon, but didn't forbid it. "It's _your_ stomach," he said, then muttered, "poor, defenseless organ."

Tim grumbled as the doctor left. "You'd think I'd asked for chicken, pineapple, ham, banana and cinnamon toppings as well!"

The others looked appalled. "You've...had...those...?"

"Uh...not often," Tim said defensively.

Tony went out for the pizzas, and when they came, the foursome ate quickly, eager to exchange information.

"Here's what we know," said Gibbs. "McGee, you were found, unconscious, alongside a road in the George Washington National Forest –"

"But – that's in _Virginia_, boss!"

"Yes, McGee. We're in Virginia," Gibbs said to Tim's startled look. "This was at about 5:30 Monday morning."

"You mean Sunday."

"No, Monday."

"But –"

"Trust me, McGee, it was Monday," said Tony. "Gibbs went a teensy-weensy bit nuclear Monday when you didn't show up for work. Practically everyone's been here since. Ducky's been here twice. Even the Director was here yesterday. I think she was hoping to get you to sign a sick leave slip." Manfully, he accepted Gibbs' headslap for that one.

Tim looked confused, but let it pass. "Go on."

"The rescue squad was called, and you were med-flighted here," Gibbs continued. He was holding Tim's hand to take away some of the shock of the ugly story and Tim's growing anxiety over the time imbalance. "At first they thought you had just a bad head injury. You were under close examination for some time for possible brain swelling, which never occurred, thank God. They saw that you weren't breathing normally, but that was misdiagnosed at first. Then they found that the mud covering your back had masked your stab wound."

"_Stab wound?!"_

"Yes. You were stabbed in the back, Tim." Gibbs met his eyes. "Into your right lung. And while the mud did you a kindness by sealing the wound and stopping the bleeding, it also worked against you by introducing a number of nasty things into your bloodstream." He decided against listing the pathogens the doctor had mentioned to them. "That caused a sepsis. That, plus your head injury, kept you knocked out from Monday until now.

"And we know the attack wasn't random. The wound was made by a box cutter. A piece of the blade broke off and was found in your lung. So this is definitely connected to the Latkis case, even though the attacks were about 200 miles apart.

"You had no ID on you when you were found. No phone, no wallet. Those must have fallen out of your pocket when you rolled down the hill. The only clue – and it took a sharp state trooper to figure this out – was the tag on your key ring, which was still in your pocket. The bar code tag that goes with your car keys."

"The one you're supposed to keep _separate _from your car keys, Probie," Tony grinned. "You know, in case you lose your keys, the dealership can make new ones for you by identifying your car."

"Yeah. I've been meaning to pull that off the key ring," Tim mumbled.

Gibbs continued. "Well, it was a good thing for us that you still had it there. The state police had to wait for Porsche to open, and then had to argue with them to search their "confidential" customer data base. When they pulled up your record, they had your phone number. Of course, you didn't answer, so they called your employer, as listed in the file. And got Cynthia, who put the Director on." He turned to Ziva. "This couldn't have been half an hour after you left for the airport. Sorry.

"By the time we got here, you had just been moved into Recovery. We figured it might be awhile until you woke up, and we needed to go over the area where you were found for evidence, so we drove out there. It's about 20 miles from here – the State Police were able to give us the GPS coordinates. Our guess is that you were stabbed while riding in a car; probably by someone riding in the back seat. Then you were dumped in the forest in hopes that you wouldn't be found for awhile."

"Or forever," Tim said hollowly.

Gibbs squeezed his hand. "You have a bruising on your left side that the doctors say looks like a kick. That may have been to send you down the hill into the trees. From the ground disturbances, it looked like you may have rolled down 60 or so feet! How you got up that hill, back to the road, I can't figure out."

"I had help, but only in my mind."

Surprised, Gibbs stared at him. He hadn't expected an answer, but Tim only turned away, with a soft smile. _Well, maybe he'll tell me about that someday, when he's ready to._

"Anyway, we found your wallet, McGee," said Tony. "And your backpack. And your cell phone, though it looks like the mud did a number on it, unfortunately."

"Now tell us what _you_ remember," Gibbs coaxed. "What can you tell us about whoever did this to you?"

Tim searched and searched his mind, and then finally grimaced. "Nothing. I – other than crawling up the hill, I have this large blank spot. I – you say I was found on Monday? And it had to have been Sunday, probably at night, when this happened?"

"You remember crawling up the hill? What do you remember before that?"

"Watching _Hex_ on _BBC America_. I'm positive of that. I went through all this in my mind when I woke up in the woods at night. You know, why was I here, how did I get here, all those things without – without answers."

"_Hex?_ That's on Saturday night," Tony remarked.

"So I'm missing all of Sunday…"

"The doctors expected that you might have some traumatic amnesia, due to your head injury. With luck, your memory will come back soon."

"I must have gone to the comics con…I had a full weekend membership…but I can't…" Tim shook his head, and finding that that only made it ache, put his head in his hands.

"We do know one thing about Sunday," said Tony. "You had dinner with Dana O'Hara after the con closed down."

Tim looked astounded. "I _what?!_ If you're making this up, Tony; it's not funny!"

"It's true, McGee," said Ziva. "We called Ms. O'Hara Monday morning when you didn't show up for work."

"Why?!"

"Er, ah…Well, does it really matter why? Ms. O'Hara said she last saw you early Sunday evening; you two had dinner north of Rockville."

Tim was both horribly embarrassed as to the why (knowing Ziva and Tony, he could guess why), and also frustrated at not being able to remember what should have been a dream-perfect dinner with the woman he adored. _Did it go well? Or did I come off like an idiot? Why, God, did you have me forget _this?! "Oh, God; Oh, God…"

Wisely, Gibbs changed the subject, wondering idly how much he should consider slapping down Ziva and Tony for evidently torturing Tim. _That can wait._ "Okay. Let's sum up. You were dumped in the forest sometime Sunday evening or early Monday morning, by persons unknown, and it's a safe bet that it's connected to the Latkis case. Someone thought you were too close to it. We've taken fingerprints from your belongings; we'll see if Abby can find anything there.

"The doctors said you could be moved to a hospital closer to home when your condition improved. If we're lucky, they can do that tomorrow. It's a long drive down here."

"S-Sorry, boss."

"Not your fault, Tim. Glad you weren't dumped in, oh, Pennsylvania, though."

"Well, I think I'll go back to NCIS," said Ziva. "I had eight voice mail messages as of this morning; I have no idea what they are. See you later." The tough lady paused long enough to give Tim a gentle kiss on the forehead.

Tony sat in his usual spot, chomping the pizza slices that Tim hadn't been able to eat. "Probie, we had to go through your backpack for clues. Want to see what you bought Sunday? Maybe it'll help jog your memory."

"I remember _Saturday,"_ Tim snarled, "and you making fun of my comics interests then." Turning to Gibbs, he said, "Tony came to the con on Saturday just to bug me!"

"Not true, McGee. I wanted to buy some _Jimmy Olsen_ comics. And I did, as you saw. I never intended to cross your path. I'm sorry if –"

"You called me a _loser!"_

"No, I said you were _identifying_ yourself with losers. But even that –"

"You practically called me a dorky, immature freak!"

"_No,_ McGee; that's not what I –"

"_I am stuck here in this hospital bed! I can't leave here! Why don't you get out and leave me alone?!!"_

Tony looked stunned. Gibbs was silent, watching to see what would happen. Tony picked up his swoop cap and sports coat, and started for the door.

Tim, feeling his head throb the most since he'd woken up, heard phrases muttered. "...don't let him do this..." "...best for all considered if I just go".

The room seemed unnaturally quiet after Tony had gone. Gibbs sighed. "I should go, too. I think I have some paperwork to fill out at Admissions. God knows where civilization would be without paperwork."

He stood, and looked down at Tim. "I know DiNozzo razzes you all the time. I don't know why he keeps doing it. And I know that must be irritating to you. Supremely irritating.

"But you should know this: Inside, underneath that clownish exterior, he _does_ care about you. I can see that he does. Since you got out of surgery, he and he alone hasn't left the hospital except for the couple hours we spent searching the site where you were found. I wasn't able to get him to leave you. He has always had your back, and not just when on duty or because someone tells him he has to do so. He does this because he feels it's the right thing to do. Can you say you've done the same?" He watched this sink in; Tim looking troubled. Gibbs turned to go. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Wait!"

Gibbs turned back. Tim was reaching for the room's phone. "Do you know Tony's cell number?"

The team leader smiled to himself. "No, but my phone does." He handed it over. "I'll be back shortly for it."

- - - - -

Tony sat in his car in the hospital parking lot, the air-conditioning running on full until the car cooled enough to support life. He gripped the steering wheel and knocked his head against it a couple times. _Why do I make a mess of everything I do?... I should have been able to prevent that whole scene..._

His phone rang. Gibbs. "Yeah, boss."

"Tony, it's Tim. Look, I – I'm an ass. I really am. And I'm sorry...And I was wondering, if...if maybe you could... come back and...keep me company?"

Tony's grin rivaled the brightness of the sun. "I'll be there in five."

- - - - -

Gibbs was delayed at the Admissions desk, and had to flash his badge at two workers to move things along. When he got back to Tim's room to retrieve his phone, he was pleased to hear voices.

"...so I've looked at your _Sully's Air Force_ books, and they're pretty damn good. Great storytelling."

"I wish I could read them, but...my head is hurting too much. Making my vision a little blurry."

"The doc said that will go away. Want me to read to you? I do a pretty good range of voices."

"Sure! Thanks."

"Okay. Page 1. We're picking up in the middle of some story. The strip date is March 2, 1946. The narration says: _Sully is a prisoner in a castle_! There's a strong-but-moronic-looking guard who says, "Foolish American! No one has ever escaped from this castle. The rats will gnaw your bones!" But Sully has seen the glow of two eyes in the shadows behind the guard. A feminine hand signals him to stay quiet..."

Tim was hanging on every word. Gibbs left, smiling.


	14. Transfer

Abby frowned at the AFIS fingerprint program that refused to identify the fingerprints found on Tim's backpack. _Who doesn't have their fingerprints on file with the government these days?_ Well, lots of people, mostly. But you'd think that the _bad guys_ would be on file...

_I wish there was _something_ I could do for Timmy..._

- - - - -

Ziva came in out of the summer-like spring heat, grateful that HQ had been running the air-conditioning since the first of the month. Tony claimed that summer in Washington lasted at least five months, and she was prepared to believe it.

_Voice mail..._ She punched in her retrieval code, and found she now had _nine_ messages. Not expecting much of anything, she pulled up the Latkis case file on her computer as the first message played.

"_Hi, Officer David. You may not remember me, but I spoke to you Saturday at Rockvillecon. Oh, my name is Kevin Gorman; sorry. You asked me about that sailor, George whatzisname. I know everyone remembers him as a nice guy, but my wife reminded me that we once saw him give a lame guy a hard time just because...well, you can guess. I don't think he was all that nice after all." _

The message clicked off, and she sat, deep in thought, before going on to the next one.

- - - - -

It was after 4 steamy o'clock when Gibbs arrived at NCIS. Ziva beckoned to him. "You have to see this, Gibbs!"

He came over and she positioned her cursor on the .wav file she had created from the voice mail messages. "Listen to this! Nine calls; nine people telling me that they've remembered – or they were someone whom I missed talking to Saturday – that Seaman Latkis was really a pretty, ah, crummy person. He seemed nice on the surface, but was bigoted, nosy, cruel, and possibly a shyster. Two sellers are positive he cheated them out of money by doing a slight-of-hand." She then opened the file.

"And there could be more people who haven't called you," Gibbs remarked. "We could have a long list of suspects."

"But who intersected with McGee? He always comes off as being as innocent as a ham."

"That's 'lamb'."

"It is? Oh, thanks. I've always wondered what made a ham so innocent."

"Tomorrow I'll go over your list of callers with McGee – see if that brings anything to mind."

"But he still won't remember anything from Sunday..."

- - - - -

Jenny was all business, as usual. "So McGee may be transferred to a Washington hospital as early as tomorrow? Good. Our insurance company prefers to deal with hospitals they're used to working with; government reimbursements being a trifle stingy."

The late afternoon sun poured through the windows. Gibbs stepped out of the path of a sunbeam. "Just make sure that the company knows that this was a job-related injury. I don't want McGee to be hit with a bill."

"The box-cutter blade that broke off in his lung will cinch that...You said DiNozzo stayed behind to read to McGee? Read him what?"

"He's reading from a book that's a collection of an old comic strip that McGee likes. _Sully's Air Force."_

"_Sully's Air Force?_ Good heavens!" She looked slightly surprised or appalled; Gibbs couldn't tell which. "Well, if it helps him heal faster, I suppose it's a good thing. But _Sully's Air Force_...!"

_She'd probably prefer the works of Dostoevsky. Or that book on the management secrets of Attila the Hun._

- - - - -

Tony drove home with the sun setting behind him. It was about a two-hour drive, and it would be dark before he hit Washington. But all seemed a lot better in the world than it had in the last few days.

_We'll get whoever did this to you, Tim. They won't get away. I promise!_

- - - - -

The hospital in Virginia was either habitually good on its word, or else eager to get government-insurance-rate Tim off their hands. The transfer happened in mid-morning, to a hospital just a short hop from the Navy Yard that welcomed NCIS agents and others, being now well familiar with that particular flavor of regulations.

At noon Gibbs ran out to pay Tim a quick visit; asking him about Ziva's voice mail list would have to wait until he had more free time later in the day. About to enter Tim's new room, Gibbs halted on hearing an unexpected voice.

"You see, McGee, Milton Caniff was _the_ master of the military-adventure strip. Ten years before Alfred Wheekin burst on the scene with _Sully's Airforce_, Caniff had people enthralled with _Terry and the Pirates._ When I was a child, I read his later strip, _Steve Canyon_, in the paper every day, sitting on my father's lap at the start. I lived for the arrival of the daily paper. I wanted to run off on adventures with Steve Canyon when I grew up, but that's just between you and me. And then later my father started buying me the _Terry_ collections. I was over the moon!"

Tim said something Gibbs couldn't make out, but it must have been positive, because the Director continued. "This is the first book, the one that starts the collection. And here's how it goes. It starts with a day-before-the-actual-premiere 'teaser' strip, introducing the characters. It says, 'Introducing Terry and the Pirates! Terry is a wide awake American boy whose grandfather left him a map of an abandoned mine in China. The others concerned in his treasure hunt are...' "

Gibbs smiled and left. Tim wouldn't miss him just yet.

- - - - -

_To be continued_...


	15. The Suspects List

Mid Friday afternoon Tim felt like the specimen under the microscope as Gibbs, Ziva and Tony sat 'round his hospital bed. The hospital in Virginia had seemed remote and bucolic; this one, in Washington, fairly buzzed with the presence of the thousands of federal employees who worked nearby. Tim was tired due to the flood of visitors he'd had today: not just his team and Ducky (and the Director herself!), but also friends on several other teams: Scott, Hailey, Morgan, Dmitri, Joe, Barbara, Roy, and others. His parents had called; asked if he'd wanted them to come. He'd said no, it wasn't necessary, as he always did; and they had respected his wishes, as they always did; not wanting to hover, provided he stayed in touch. Sarah, his sister, had come and talked his ears off until he had pretended to fall asleep.

But he couldn't refuse his team, here doing real work, even though the Director's loaned _Terry and the Pirates, vol. 1_ was in arm's reach, tantalizing...

"Someone who attended Rockvillecon as a ticket holder, comics pro, or seller wanted to get rid of you, McGee," Tony was saying. "Someone had a link between you and Seaman Latkis."

"But that doesn't make sense. I'd never met Latkis; as far as I know, the first time I saw him was when I found his body. Last Friday." Tim said. He was slowly becoming more accepting of his time loss. "I don't remember seeing him at the con last year. The trouble is, sailor suits don't stand out for me in public like they do for civilians. I've seen too many of them."

"You don't have to have _seen_ him," said Gibbs. "My guess is the murderer thinks _you_ know something about _their_ connection to Latkis. Like you overheard something at the con that might implicate them."

"If they've thought that far, then wouldn't they be wondering why NCIS hasn't arrested them by now?"

"Likely, they've assumed that the information you had 'died' with you," said Ziva. "You wore shorts and a t-shirt all weekend. It was evident that you didn't go to work on Friday. Because of the weekend, you didn't have a chance to tell whatever you knew to NCIS."

"But McGee _did_ go to work on Friday, though late in the afternoon," Tony protested. "And some people at the con did see us in NCIS gear Friday."

"We didn't really call much attention to ourselves, though. We only talked to Ms. O'Hara and those other three comics guys."

"And you went around asking questions of everyone on Saturday, Ziva," Tim put in. "So why did someone attack ­_me?"_

"I think the answer's on Sunday," Gibbs said. "Locked there in your mind. Though it's possible that they think you saw something one of the other days. And now you're 'dead'. And the murderer – your assailant – thinks they've gotten away with it."

"Do we have addresses for all these people?" asked Tony, looking at Ziva's printout of names. "The comics pros from Artists' Alley, the sellers, and so on?

"I'm sure we can locate them. Probably most of them live in this area."

"I can probably get that info from Jeff Montoya, the con chairman," Tim said. "I know him. I'd talked with him about helping with the con next year. Non-profit cons, like this one, are run by volunteers."

"_You're_ contacting _no one,"_ Gibbs said firmly. "You're 'dead', remember?"

"_Feel the worms,_ Probie," Tony grinned. " 'The worms crawl in, the worms crawl out...'"

"Come closer, Tony, so I can vomit on you," Tim retorted. Maggots did indeed make him queasy.

Gibbs continued. "If we're going to keep the murderer from skipping town, they have to think that they did kill you. Of course there's been no news in the papers – your 'body' hasn't been found yet. Or else it has, and the agency is hushing it up while they investigate. Or the agency is worried because you're 'missing'. So the murderer feels safe. No clues were left behind –" he sighed. "—and there's nothing to pin the crime on them."

"Another reason why we can't let them know you're alive, McGee," said Ziva, meeting his eyes, "is that they might try again to kill you. And they might succeed this time."

"I'm not afraid."

"You _should_ be, if they knew you were alive." Gibbs gave him a stern look. "That's why we'll keep you 'dead' for the time being. Let's go over the list of people Ziva talked to." She had printed it in alphabetical order. Gibbs didn't know how she got the computer to do that (it was over 100 names), and didn't care to learn. " 'Arzhok, William. Artist and writer, Nipponmania Comics.'"

"Oh, yeah. He does these cool _manga_ – that's Japanese-style comics – about teenaged crime fighters with ancient psychic powers...not that that likely interests you," he hastened to add.

"Just tell us if you've had any interaction with him, particularly if unfavorable, last weekend."

"Uh...no. I bought his latest two issues, but barely spoke to him."

"Okay. Next, 'Asch, Laura. Lonesome Hero Comics and Games.' A seller."

"She's new this year. Has some good stuff, mostly overpriced. I didn't buy anything. She had a display of 1970s _X-Men_ and _Space Ghost_–"

"_McGee!"_

"Sorry, boss. Uh, no, no vibes there; good or bad."

And on and on the list went. A few names did trigger negative feelings for Tim, though all were mild, and due to things that could be perceived by any attendee: a gruff attitude, a genuine reserve, a distrust of tall men with brown hair and green eyes. He wondered to himself if that last one explained some of his personal problems.

When Gibbs got to 'O'Hara, Dana', Tim yelped, almost leaving his bed. "Leave my friends out of this, boss! _Move on!"_

"McGee, did you or did you not just meet O'Hara, Vaughn, Runkel and Silberwald last Friday?!"

"Um...define 'meet'."

"Don't play semantics. Did you know anything about those four people before last Friday? Tell the truth." Since McGee was a miserable liar, and knew it, the command was almost unnecessary.

Tim took a deep breath, ignoring the pain in his right lung this brought. "I bought a comic from James Vaughn last year. We didn't really speak; he took my money and autographed it. I remember he was talking to someone else, the comics writer sitting to his right, while he did so. He was sitting with Dodo, Kim and Dana in the same position as this year's con, but I didn't talk to the others."

"You didn't talk to Dana O'Hara last year, McGee? You didn't notice her?" asked Ziva, puzzled.

"Of course I noticed her," Tim said, feeling his face turn traitorously red. "She's _beautiful_. I just – she's so pretty, and a guy like me...would never have a chance...I didn't say anything until _she_ approached _me_ last Friday, to tell me about a possible murder."

"Oh, yeah. Tell us again about how a gun is held, Probie," Tony grinned wickedly, putting his fingers in position. Ziva gave him a sharp elbow.

Gibbs ignored that. "So there's no reason _not to_ keep them on the suspects list."

"Yes, there is!" Tim insisted. "I _like_ them! They're good people. They wouldn't harm me."

"And Dana is hot!" Tony added.

"Yeah, she – _no! _She's just – _nice_. That's why I like her."

"Does Abby know that you now have a thing for blondes?" Ziva teased.

"We're getting off the subject," Gibbs growled. _"Everyone_ remains a suspect, McGee. Including your new friends."

"Next you'll be telling me that Alfred Wheekin is a suspect! He's 89 years old!"

"He_ is_ on the list, but we can keep him pretty far down. But that reminds me, McGee: no getting in touch with your new friends until this case is solved. You're 'dead' to anyone who was at the con."

"But – I thought I might call Dana, and ask her out –" That was pretty unlikely, he knew; until his Sunday memory of their dinner returned, he'd never find the courage to call her. But he didn't want this avenue closed to him.

"No! Absolutely not!"

"But if I wait too long, she'll think I'm not interested!"

"No! And that's an _order_, McGee!"

Tim sank back into the depths of his pillow. _No contact with Dana...!_ "Are we almost done? I'm tired."

Gibbs swore. "I'd forgotten. You've probably had half of NCIS troop in to see you today. We'll get through this list as quickly as possible and then you can sleep."

After another 20 minutes, they had narrowed the list to people Tim had bad feelings about and also people he'd talked to a lot: Tony read them off: " 'Alfred Wheekin. Downy 'Dodo' Runkel. Kim Silberwald. James Vaughn. Dana O'Hara. Eric Osterland. Rocky Bovine'...Who gives a kid a name like that?!... 'Wally Haines. Jessica Chan. Bob Sosa. Jay Greene. Denise Porcelli. Robert Smith'...Oh, I'm going to _love_ tracking _that_ one."

"Good. You can have it," said Gibbs.

Tony gave him a baleful eye and resumed reading. " 'Ashley Kilgarin. Fred Fuss'...Sounds like a comics character." he chuckled.

"Just read, DiNozzo."

"It's hard, boss. Ziva's handwriting is _too neat._ Compared to the rest of you – _Ow!"_ She'd given him another sharp elbow. He went on, rubbing his side with his other hand. " 'Tom Corleone. Alexander Thackery. Jerald G. Ibbs'...Hmm; that's a suspicious-sounding name!... 'Michael Muir. Jeff Montoya.' That's it. So our next step is to do a background check on all these people. Why do so many things start on a Friday afternoon? Do you want me to come in and work on this tomorrow, boss?"

Gibbs was surprised and touched by Tony's enthusiasm. Tony normally had plenty of better things to do on his weekends, or so he often told them. "No, our overtime budget is _kaput_ again. We'll be limited until the start of the new fiscal year, in October...It's just 4 o'clock now. What we can't do today, we'll pick up on Monday." He rose. "McGee, are you all right? You don't look so hot."

Tim's eyes were closed. "I'm just really tired."

"Just how many visitors did you have today?!"

"Roughly..." he counted rapidly. "...23."

"How can you have 'roughly' 23?" asked Tony. "Did you have some fractions of people?"

Too tired to argue, Tim said, "Maybe. I don't know."

"That's way too many people," said Gibbs. "I'll talk to your doctor."

"But I _like_ people."

"And people like _you,_ Probie," Tony smiled. "But you've got to learn to say 'no'."

They left, and Tim was asleep before the last one on his team was out the door.


	16. Go, Abby, Go!

_They think I don't care. They think I'm 'Stone-Hearted Abby' because I haven't been to see Tim in the hospital. What would _you_ do, though, if someone was eager, excited to do something, and you were less certain? Would you let them get in line ahead of you? You probably would._

_So now you know how I feel. Today I heard of agent after agent, in pairs or threesomes, heading for the hospital to visit Tim. He has many more friends than he knew he had. And I've been sitting here in my lab, thinking I could pull rank (well, you know what I mean) and get in the visitors' queue, because I've worked more closely with Tim than almost any of them._

_But I haven't gone. Right now I am too conflicted. When Tim and I last talked, it wasn't pleasant. Maybe Tim won't want to see me._ Abby sighed, and hugged her stuffed hippo.

- - - - -

Ziva brought down some documents, a transparent excuse, in the late afternoon. Never one to beat around the bush, she said simply, "Go to the hospital and visit McGee. You're the only one in the agency who hasn't done so."

"You're exaggerating."

"And you're stalling."

"Don't push me, Ziva. Did he _say_ he wants to see me?"

"Well...no..."

"Then let's not talk about it." Abby turned back to her work.

"Abby..." Ziva sounded torn. "...he needs you. He doesn't realize it, but..."

Abby looked at her, expectant but silent. Ziva went on. "There's a woman –"

"_What?!_ What woman?!" Ziva had her full attention now.

"A woman he met at the comics con. Her name is Dana O'Hara."

"And?"

"McGee's – what's the term? – kittens with her."

" 'Smitten'."

"Oh, that's it. Smitten with her."

Abby forced down unexplained anxiety, put on a cool exterior. "So why should I care? It's a free country; McGee can crush on any woman he likes."

Looking a little confused by _crush on,_ Ziva nonetheless forged ahead. "You should care because you're a friend of his, and you should want what's best for him. Tony and I think this woman's all wrong for him; that she's trouble and, ah, two-faced; and that she'll only hurt him. We're concerned. McGee won't listen to us; maybe he'll listen to you."

"Tell me more about her," Abby said, dazed.

Ziva told her what they knew, including Dana's mention of the dinner date Sunday.

"But I thought McGee doesn't remember anything of Sunday."

"Yes, and that's, ah, driving him crazy."

Abby hesitated. "You've met her? Is she...pretty?"

"A very attractive blonde, yes."

"More attractive than _me,_ I'm sure."

"_Abby!"_

"Look, Ziva; in American society blondes will beat out all other hair colors, every time. Well, okay; people like Gibbs and his redhead fascination are an exception. But no one will look at a brunette if a cute blonde is in the room. That's just the way American men are conditioned. Believe me, I know."

"Abby, you're being silly. And I never said she was 'cute'. Doesn't 'cute' imply appealing in a fun, friendly way? Dana O'Hara is attractive, even beautiful, but her manner is cool, aloof. You, on the, ah, other hand, are genuinely cute. You have this warm, happy glow that draws people to you...when you don't look like you want to kill someone, like you do now."

"I should go see McGee," Abby said. _And plant a kiss on those luscious lips._ She rose.

"I don't think you can today. McGee was exhausted when we left 15 minutes ago, and Gibbs was going to ask his doctor to limit the number of visitors."

"Tomorrow, then. First thing."

"Go, Abby, go!" Ziva grinned.

Abby grinned back. _Go! Go! Go!_


	17. In the Enemy's Lair

Abby presented herself at the hospital at 8 o'clock Saturday morning. She wore a new top that Tim hadn't seen: mostly black (of course), with cute skeletal pigs and cows frolicking in a pasture under a smiling skull-faced sun– sort of a dark side of _Teletubbies._ A short black skirt, boots, and a shiny new dog collar completed the look, with her ponytails held in clasps of alternating tibia bones and pigs' heads. _This should make him smile._

"I'm sorry, ma'am," said the head nurse on the floor, while giving Abby's splendid outfit a perhaps less-than-approving look. "The patient is not allowed visitors this weekend. Doctor's orders; the patient got worn out yesterday. He needs to rest."

_But I could wind him back up,_ Abby thought, and turned to go before that uncool nurse could see her tears.

- - - - -

She started up her hearse. _What to do if I can't see Timmy until Monday? He needs to be rescued from the clutches of this Dana, this hussy. What can I do to make this right?_

After Ziva had left the lab yesterday, Abby had stated her own background check on Dana O'Hara. _I really will give this information to Gibbs' team. If I can come up with a good excuse for my unauthorized snooping._ There was a multitude of information; she could sniff out data with the best of the agents. _Dana Gilford O'Hara; age 32;, born Sandusky, Ohio; masters' degree in art, Yale; Rhodes Scholar; residence: Black River, Maryland; drives a Honda Civic; occupation: assistant director, Vornum Museum of Modern Art._ Those were the highlights. No mention of any marriages. The house she lived in was deeded in her name alone. No relationships, then? No children of her last name in the local public school system. No remarkable debts in her name; no criminal record; not even an outstanding parking ticket. She had neither a web site nor a blog. Her name didn't come up on any online lists of local clubs or charities.

Abby had printed all this out and taken it home to read and enjoy over and over again, over alcohol. And she had it with her now, in her delicately beaded skull-and-crossbones handbag.

_Black River, Maryland...I should be able to get there in under three hours._ She pulled out of the parking lot and headed north, figuring she'd have decided why she was doing this by the time she got there.

- - - - -

Black River was a smallish town in the far northwest corner of Maryland, where the land rolled skyward into mountains. Quiet, but not entirely off the beaten path, and West Virginia and Pennsylvania were practically next door. It _did_ boast that modern art museum, probably located there because land was relatively cheap and yet interstate highway 68 rumbled not too far away.

Dana-demon's street was not hard to find. It lazed under the shade of oaks, maples and elms; a street in a subdivision that looked like 1960s baby-boom development. Mostly split-level houses and a few ranches, all on quarter-acre lots. Probably many fewer kids were around than there were 40 years ago, when the streets would have teemed with them. Still, a few kids were to be seen, playing in the front yards or riding their bikes and skateboards up and down the street. They stared and pointed at Abby's hearse, and she waved cheerfully to them, eliciting smiles.

The house at number 39, the one Dana-dammit lived in, was trim and neatly maintained; the yard lined with tall bushes erupting with white and purple lilacs. Fading forsythia bushes flanked the front door, and the heady scent of honeysuckle arose from somewhere. But there was no answer to the doorbell, and no car in the driveway. _Where could she be? Do assistant directors have to work some weekends?_

She headed for the museum, a brown and white mutt chasing her car for a few blocks. _No, doggie; you don't want to ride in this. No one wants to be this car's passenger._

The Vornum Museum of Modern Art was a splendid building, less than ten years old, nestled on several green, rolling acres that were speckled with picnic benches under large, sheltering trees. Pulling into the lot, she spotted the Honda Civic that was Dana-dung's; the plate number matched her notes. With cheek, Abby pulled in next to it.

The admission charge was nominal and she entered the cool darkness of the museum gratefully. On her right was a large Morris Louis "color field" painting, its mostly dark-hued scraggly lines slanting gracefully up from (or was that down to?) the center. _Where would I find her, Dana-dumkopf?_

"Oh, Ms. O'Hara; this package came for you. I haven't had time to bring it to your office; sorry."

Abby turned, saw the young man at the admissions booth who'd sold her her ticket; saw _that woman,_ Dana-diseased, recognizable from the many pictures of her that Abby had found. She wore a business suit, her hair piled on top of her head in an attractive but business-like 'do.

"That's all right, Steve. I'll take it now. Thank you."

Acting fast, Abby deliberately bumped into the woman. "Oh! I am _so_ sorry! I didn't watch where I was going!"

"I'm sure it was my mistake," Dana-dirt murmured; professional, well-bred, and _tres_ cool. "Are you all right?"

"Oh, yes; I'm pretty near indestructible." Abby decided to wing it; that often worked, in the absence of a plan. She rarely traveled with plans. "As I say to my friend Tim, 'Nothing hurts me.' Well, maybe bullets. I'm not the Woman of Steel, but I'm probably at a Woman of Kevlar level."

Dana-donut looked bewildered, but only said, "Enjoy your visit to our museum." But had there been a flicker in her eye when Abby mentioned the name _Tim?_

Mentally Abby jumped back in, idea now in hand. She side-stepped to get back into Dana-doofus' field of vision. "I really ought to bring Tim up here to see your museum. He _loves_ modern art!" _If comic books are considered 'modern art.' _"Kandinsky—Chegall—Picasso, of course—David Smith...do you have any of his steel sculptures? From the _Cubi_ series? Well, I'll find out! Tim and I can never agree about Jackson Pollock, but we _adore_ Morris Louis. Tim's looking to buy one, maybe, if one comes on the market..."

"Morris Louis is very, very expensive," said Dana-dust. "Now a nice print, perhaps..."

"Oh, no, no. Tim only goes for the real thing. Like, he types with an old manual typewriter for authenticity when he's writing." _How much has McGee told her about himself?_

Again the woman displayed a curious, slightly confused look, but nothing more.

_I'd better watch my babbling. Take it off Tim for a moment._ Abby had read Gibbs' team's late Friday report, with the notation that outside of NCIS, Tim _must_ be presented as dead or missing. Abby knew she had to be careful or she'd compromise the case and Tim's safety. "Do you have any membership forms? I'd like to join the museum."

Dana-dog turned to her worker in the admissions booth. "Steve, a membership form, please?"

"Uh, I gave out the last one I had a little while ago, Ms. O'Hara. Becky is supposed to bring me some when she relieves me at lunch. I can go get some more now..."

"No, stay; I'll take care of it," said Dana-devil, then to Abby, "If you'll come with me, I have forms in my office."

_Yes! Yes! Her office! But this is where she probably has small children roasting in her oven. Do I have the tools to set them free?_ Abby followed the woman happily; barely able to keep from skipping.

Dana-ding-a-ling's office was large and orderly, with prints by Warhol and Lichtenstein on the walls. Among the colorful items on her desk, Abby noticed, was a photo in a sleek, silver frame; a picture of Dana-doldrums, smiling, her arms around a smiling young man with short, curly hair and glasses. _Wonder who _that_ is...?_

"Here is the form," said Dana-droppings. "You can fill it out and turn it in at the Admissions booth."

"Thank you!!" Abby smiled sunnily. "Oh, my gosh! I forgot to bring my check book! I'll have to mail in the form. Can I have one for my Tim" _(MY Tim!)_ "too, in case he decides to join?" _(Unless he'd rather use this paper in his bathroom.)_

"Certainly. I hope you get a lot of enjoyment out of the museum."

"Oh, I will! I will!" On an evil impulse, Abby gave the woman one of her trademarked hugs, causing her to blanch but otherwise remain in control.

"'Bye now!" Abby said, and scampered out, now eager to see the museum, since she really did like modern art.

Now that she'd met Dana-dementor, met the enemy, she could hone her swords and prepare for the Battle for Tim McGee.


	18. A LongDelayed Visit

"Timmy? Are you awake?" Abby peered around the door to Tim's hospital room. It was 8 o'clock Monday morning. Abby had wanted to be sure that _no one_ got to see Tim before _she did _today. Earlier, she'd almost barred the way to the attendant with the breakfast tray, but then decided that wasn't helpful.

He had only been dozing, the TV on low to the local morning news. He opened his eyes and a genuine smile beamed forth. "Abby! _You came!_ I've missed you!"

Oh, those were the words she'd so longed to hear! She ran to his side and gave him a very gentle hug, mindful of his back wound. "Oh, Timmy; I'm so sorry we fought..."

"Me, too. I don't like fighting with you, Abbs. You're too important to me."

_Well, he _could have_ said 'I love you', but that's probably too much to ask for. At this point._ She broke apart from him and sat back. "I can't stay long. I snuck out of work..."

"Bad girl, Abbs." He gave her nose a gentle, playful poke.

She smiled, but it was a struggle to draw her attention away from those soft, compelling lips. _No, no, Abby. Win his heart and mind first. A lust competition with that Dana-doodoo won't yield a permanent victory. Heart and mind; heart and mind; and the rest will come in due course..._

_Oh, what the hell._ She leaned in and kissed him. He was startled, but quickly jumped in, wrapping his arm around her.

When, after a few minutes, they broke apart, Abby quickly had to come up with an excuse. The man was, after all, kittens—no, _smitten_ with another woman. "That's to make sure you're not dead," she said to him.

"Want to make double-sure? Maybe the first time was a false reading," he said. His eyes shown with stars.

"Good idea," she murmured, leaning back in. _Heart and mind will come at their own pace. Come on, heart and mind! Hustle!!_

- - - - -

Arriving back at NCIS, Abby tried sneaking to the elevator, past the busy squad room. Of course it would be too much to ask for Gibbs and co. to be out on a field assignment; God wasn't _always_ taking her side. But at least they appeared to be busy. Ziva and Tony were looking at something on Ziva's computer, and Gibbs had his head lowered, reading some printouts.

_Keep your head down, Gibbs; that's it, Gibbs; don't look up..._

And he didn't! But he did say, "I bought you a _Caf-Pow,_ Abby." He held up her drug-of-choice, and she accepted it, sipping the still-cold drink gratefully.

"Don't sneak out of work again. You went to see McGee?"

_Dang; how does he know _everything?! "Yes."

"How is he today?"

_Yummy!_ "He's, uh, fine. Just fine."

"Well, it was about time that you visited him. Now get back to work."

"Okay, Gibbs." She hugged him. The world, the solar system, and the Milky Way galaxy were all great places to be today!

- - - - -

"The search on Eric Osterland is complete, boss," Tony announced. He paused to rub his tired eyes. _Why didn't Homeland Security package every fact on everyone on the planet, and maybe beyond, into one neat file? Homeland Security, whose sub-motto must be _Trust no one, not even your granny?_ In 2007, why were we still having to search through numerous databases?_

"Anything of interest?" They had divided the list of 20 names (7 for Gibbs, 7 for Ziva, and 6 for Tony, who had to deal with 'Robert Smith'), and were calling out closed searches to each other as they happened.

"Not really. Let's see...one DWI arrest, charge dismissed; one arrest while in college for participation in a panty raid—ah , a man after my own heart..."

"I thought panty raids were after something other than hearts," said Ziva.

Tony grinned and went on. "...a lawsuit against his former business partner in his gaming shop, still pending. It's nothing major; just a property dispute. He's clean, otherwise."

"Good. We'll check him off. Have you started on Robert Smith yet?"

"Ah...not quite yet. It's coming.

"So's Christmas. Get started."

Ziva looked thoughtful. "Gibbs, I know we need to do this, but I wonder if there's something we're missing."

"Our sanity," said Tony. "I can't remember where I left mine."

Gibbs glared at him. "I can't help you with that, since I don't think I've ever seen you with it."

Ziva applauded. "Good comeback! No, I mean that instead of considering these people as individuals, what if some of them are linked? Maybe someone's working with the killer."

Snapping his fingers, Tony rose in his seat. "Hey, yeah! Remember, we concluded that someone was probably riding in the back seat of the car McGee was in Sunday night. That would have been the right location to stab him while the car was still moving!"

"Yeah. Yeah." Gibbs rubbed his chin. "While we're doing the background checks, look for any place at all that two people on the list intersect. That may be just the breaikthrough we need!"

- - - - -

_To be continued..._


	19. The Changed Man

Sometimes luck is with you; sometimes it's not.

Gibbs' team became frustrated when their searches went nowhere. Aside from Tim's four friends from the 'E' tables at Artists' Alley, no one intersected with anyone else. Days dragged on, with no new developments. Tim went home from the hospital. The team picked up a few new cases. Latkis' case ..._Tim's_ case...cooled. Officially, it would be a year from the date of Latkis' death before the case could be termed _cold_, but unofficially it soon went to the back burner; ignored, undisturbed, unless some new development sprang up. There were new cases with real developments to attend to.

The _don't-touch_ restriction Gibbs finally put on Tim's case at the end of May gnawed at Tony. He put in a few minutes on the case whenever he could find the time, reviewing the file over and over. Gibbs yelled at him: once, twice, more; saying the case could only be worked when there were no active cases. But Tony couldn't give it up. He started bringing his lunch to work so that he could at least work on it at lunch time, his own time, when Gibbs could frown but not object. Tony recognized that he was bordering on obsession, but he didn't care. He remembered that vow he'd made that Tim's assailant would be caught. He wouldn't, _couldn't_ go back on that.

After a couple weeks at home, Tim returned to light duty at work; a few weeks after that, he was certified to return to the field, in mid-June. On his first day back, he reviewed the Latkis case, _his_ case. It gave him chills. _Why couldn't they solve this?!! It should have been solved by now! _But he kept inside him the recalled horrors, this misery, this helpless feeling of being abandoned in a dark forest, as he had been in Virginia, with no one out to catch the attacker; speaking of it only on that first day back, and then not again. His team could understand that no one likely mourned the scum that was George Latkis, but it galled them that that same killer was believed to be Tim's would-be killer, and was getting away. And it changed Tim. He was no longer the person they'd known.

Now silent rather than his normal quiet; driven; grim; all the kindness seemed to have leached out of Tim. While on light duty he attacked the team's cases with amazing vigor and solved most of them; once back in the field he outran all his teammates and apprehended criminals with uncharacteristic ferocity. Other teams started referring to him as the "Killing Machine", or _KM_, for short. Gibbs heard all this, and only sighed.

When the second complaint from a team leader reached her, Jenny was forced to have Gibbs send Tim for a psych evaluation. Gibbs knew it would do no good: Tim was far too clever for them; he would figure out how to ace the tests. And he did.

As far as Gibbs was concerned, Tim didn't need a shrink. He needed closure. He was lashing out because of the cooling case (although he still wouldn't talk about it).

Tim and Abby's smooching had ended when he left the hospital. It was on Tim's second day back at work that Gibbs had discovered Abby's file on Dana, which she'd accidentally had open when he'd come into her lab. He cursed her right, left, and sideways: she was not an agent and was not permitted, under a dozen or so federal laws, to snoop on people without authorization from her superiors. He yelled, she cried; she deleted the file.

But Tim heard about the file and was livid. Abby had no right to spy on _his_ Dana. In the middle of their firestorm, he realized that Abby had cozied up to him _only after_ creating the file.

"You don't really care about _me_!" he raged, "You just want to _possess_ me so Dana can't have me!"

"No! That's _not true_, Tim!" Abby was in tears which he would not comfort. She was afraid that maybe he was right. But on the other hand, maybe she didn't want him this way. This was not the same man she had kissed a few weeks ago.

Seemingly everyone at NCIS was affected by the change in Tim. Gibbs tried, unsuccessfully, to change him back. He sent him to the NCIS gym for a daily one-hour workout; the gym staff's report was that rather than having a relaxing workout, Tim would choose hard ones that left him even more tense. Tim refused to get counsel from Ducky, who admitted, quietly and a little hurt, to Gibbs that Tim's haughtiness made him feel like a geezer. Abby was no longer speaking to Tim at all. Gibbs begged Tim's close friends from another team, Barbara Le Bouef and Joe Wicker, to talk to him; to get into his mind. Barbara and Joe had always treated Tim as a much-loved younger brother. But they reported back that he had built a protective wall around himself so thick that even they couldn't reach him. Jenny, admittedly one of Gibbs' last hopes, was no help whatsoever; being mostly removed, emotionally, from her workers, intent on the agency itself, she nearly welcomed his change to "Killing Machine."

It was hardest of all on his teammates. Tim no longer responded to Tony's gibes; it was as if he didn't even hear them. Tony continued to call him "Probie", which hardly seemed to fit anymore, but Tony hoped it would trigger something that would bring the old Tim back. Ziva mostly chewed on pens and cast worried looks throughout the day at Tim, having no answers of her own.

Gibbs, too, worried constantly. Tim didn't seem to be headed for a mental breakdown, but his new recklessness in the field put him in danger, real danger of being killed. Perhaps that was what Tim wanted: a field suicide, to end his pain. Other agents were known to have gone out that way, as much as the agency struggled to prevent it.

But the case wasn't officially cold yet, and that's what kept Gibbs striving for a solution; off the books, if need be. One day he beckoned to Tony and they had a conference in Gibbs' elevator "office." He gave Tony what Tony had been longing for: _carte blanche_ to work on Tim's case every minute, as long as he was circumspect about it. It wouldn't do to have the Director or other team leaders know how much time he was putting into it. Gibbs' only directive was that Tony get results.

On a mild day in mid-July, when the temperature was refreshingly pleasant rather than stinking hot, Tony was running a slide show on his computer that he'd made for himself: pictures of all 20 suspects. He let it run, in a loop, staring at it, hoping a miracle would alight on his desk. He'd also settle for an inspiration. Even a break. Abby happened to pass by, then, returning from getting a fresh _Caf-Pow._ "Hey! Back that truck up!" she said, staring at Tony's screen. "Who are all these people?"

"The suspects in the Latkis case. _McGee's_ case," he replied, his voice low. "Haven't you kept up with it?"

"No, not for weeks. I've been busy with other cases. But I _know_ I've seen one of your guys somewhere. Make your slide show go back!"

He halted the program and manually clicked back until she said "Stop!" She stared at the picture, shaking her head. "I've seen that guy. I _know_ I have, Tony. Who is he?"

Gibbs and Ziva joined them, curious, but Tim, deep in another case, remained at his desk, tuning them out. Increasingly, he'd preferred to be left alone, anyway. "What's up, Abby?" Gibbs asked.

She swallowed, knowing that she was about to get in trouble again, but this was the right thing to do. Though she and Tim were still on the outs, she was loyal enough to him to want a good outcome to his case. "Who is this guy? What's his name?" she asked again.

"His name's Kim Silberwald. He's one of McGee's friends from that grouping of the comics tables at the con," Ziva offered.

"Well, he's more than that," Abby looked intently at the picture of the man with curly hair and glasses. "He's Dana O'Hara's lover."


	20. A Compromise

"That's a pretty serious charge, Abby," Gibbs said after a deep breath.

"But I'm positive, Gibbs! I saw a picture of them, all lovey-dovey, on Dana O'Hara's desk in her office at the Vornum Museum in Maryland...which I went to because I really, _really_ like modern art museums," she said too quickly. She knew the excuse was feeble, and she cringed, expecting verbal blows. But Gibbs only sighed greatly and said, "Oh, Abby!...we'll talk later." Ziva, however, standing behind Gibbs, actually gave Abby a thumbs-up. _I hope she means by that what the rest of us mean by that..._

"I should have known." Surprised, they all turned toward Tim. His voice was still a little harsh, but there was a wistfulness in it, and his eyes were visibly gentler; his stance less rigid. "I think maybe I always knew that she wasn't interested in me; that she was playing me for some reason of her own." He looked sad but not mournful; still absorbing the news.

"But she _hates_ Silberwald," Tony said, disbelieving. "They're always bickering."

"No, they're putting on a very good act," Ziva speculated. "McGee, in one of your reports, didn't you say that Runkel told you he suspected that Silberwald was cheating on his wife? It looks like he was right."

"Jog any memory yet, McGee?"

"Not yet, boss..."

(_'Boss'! This is the first time in _weeks_ that he hasn't called me 'Gibbs!')_

"... but you know, I've got this Friday, the 20th, off, and..."

They looked at him, waiting. Finally, Tony said, "We know. You're going to be in line early for the _Deathly Hallows_ release, right?" He asked this with gentle humor, not sure how Tim would take it. They'd suspected all along that this was the reason for Tim's scheduled vacation day.

"No. That's ridiculous." Tim knew he would, in fact, receive his copy by Fed-Ex Saturday morning, though _Harry Potter,_ like so many other things he'd once enjoyed, no longer appealed to him. He'd ordered the book months ago; now he'd probably turn it over, unread, to his sister. "I have the day off to go to ConAlexandria; a comics and _anime_ con in Alexandria."

"No, you don't," Gibbs said firmly. "You can't go. Your case isn't closed; you're still 'dead' as far as I'm concerned."

Tim's new aggression took hold. He banged his fist on Tony's desk so hard that the others jumped. _"You can't regulate what I do in my approved leave time!!"_

"_Of course I can, if you're compromising a case, or putting someone in danger...namely, you!"_

Tim swore a blue streak. _"I don't care what you say! I am _going_ to the con, and you aren't stopping me!!"_

Gibbs' head was throbbing. "If you keep yelling like this, they'll hear you all the way to Alexandria! _My office; right now!!"_ He also signaled to Ziva, Tony, and Abby that they should come along, and waved off the director on the second floor, who'd come out of her office to see what all the shouting was about.

He stopped the elevator barely a second after the door closed. "I'll _let_ you go –" he cut off Tim's protest with a _remember-I-am-your-boss_ look. _"—IF _you go in fully armed _AND_ accept that Tony, Ziva and I will be there with you."

"But boss; how can I carry my gun? I'll be in shorts and a t-shirt again. No place for a hidden holster."

"So don't wear shorts and a t-shirt. Wear a sports coat and pants, as Tony and I will be doing."

"Boy, will I fit in in _that!" _Tim snapped harshly. " 'Woo hoo; lookit the fed'ral agent, everybody!'"

"_This is NOT NEGOTIABLE, McGee!!" _Gibbs roared. _"You either do as I say, or you don't go!!"_

"Or, you know, I could _skip_ Friday, and go on Saturday, when you'll have _no say at all_ about what I wear!!"

Gibbs only stared, struck silent. His face no longer showed anger, but rather naked, helpless fear. His heart pounded. This was Tim's journey into blackest recklessness; his path to suicide and eternal freedom from pain. And there was nothing Gibbs could do to stop it...

_Wait, maybe there is! Guard him to the point of smothering, and arrest the perps on Friday. Don't let _anything _carry over to Saturday._ Put like that, it almost sounded easy... "Let's compromise," he said, his voice raspy. "You can wear what you want, but you have to accept Tony as your guard. Tony doesn't leave your side for a _second._ One of you have to piss, you both go. _Got it?"_

Tim would have refused, but the fearful look in Gibbs' eyes had finally frightened him. _Maybe I really _could_ die if I'm not careful..._ "Okay, boss. Deal." They shook on it.

Abby came over and hugged him, and he let her; his heart losing a bit of its chill for the first time in weeks.

- - - - -

In the late afternoon, Gibbs left the file he'd been reading, and pulled his chair over to Tim's desk. There had been glimmers, though not much more than that, of the old McGee in the hours since Abby's match-up of Dana and Kim. Gibbs hoped Tim was receptive to a few questions.

The look Tim gave him when he came up was neither cold nor welcoming; just politely cool. Tim had evidently pulled up his drawbridges; retreating back inside himself.

"Tell me something, Tim," he said, his voice low and soft. "You've given up a lot of your interests in recent weeks. You don't carry a book to work anymore. You don't mention your writing. You're buying only the most violent video games on the market. You used to love _Harry Potter..._"

When Tim spoke, his voice was cold. "I've grown up. Moved on."

"But you still want to go to another comics convention, this ConAlexandria. Tell me why. I'm trying to understand."

There. A flicker of the old Tim ran across his face, then settled in. Tim leaned toward Gibbs and spoke almost in a whisper. "Comics are literature, just like a book or a play or a movie, in a broad sense. They're our stories that we tell our friends and our children and our grandchildren. They are our truths...our dreams...our fears...our glories."

His face showed he was desperate that Gibbs understand. "They are a million voices speaking, from all over the world. Different ages; different backgrounds. There are questions, and there are answers. _Some_ answers. Beauty and Sorrow and Redemption and Love and Nobility and Higher Meaning. I just...I just want to go, in hopes that I'll find something there that can tell me why I must...endure this...maybe the answer's there...I hope it is..." His voice cracked into a soft sob.

Gibbs gathered him close. This was the old Tim. "I hope so, too. If it's there, we'll help you find what you're seeking. You don't need to go this alone."

- - - - -

_To be concluded!_


	21. ConAlexandria

ConAlexandria was the meatier cousin of Rockvillecon. Due to increasing interest by the younger attendees, it had recently embraced _anime_, and now devoted a large proportion of the con activities to that, increasing the membership fourfold in two years. Comics was still a part of it, though a smaller part than it once had been.

Ziva scurried back out to the parking lot in the still-cool midmorning, Friday, having picked up the convention badges for the four of them. She also had gathered information ahead of time, and briefed the other three as they stood at the van, enjoying the still-cool air. "The convention occupies all of floors two and three in the hotel. Floor two consists entirely of _anime_ and gaming activities: films, panels, games, and so on. On floor three are some small program rooms and the two ballrooms. The sellers, or 'dealers' as they're calling them, are in the Pacific ballroom. Across the hall in the Atlantic ballroom is the Artists' Alley and an area for exhibits and one for demonstrations, though why would people want to be picketing a harmless activity like this?"

"Other kind of demonstrations, Ziva," said Tony, reading the literature. "Drawing, costume-making, and the like."

"Oh. Anime creators will be autographing in –"

"I _know_ all this," Tim snarled. "I've _been here before!"_

"Well, thanks for sharing that, Probie, but the rest of us are new to this," Tony said mildly.

"It sounds like we concentrate on floor three," said Gibbs. "That's the only overlap with Rockvillecon. Ziva and I will check out the dealers' room. You two check out the Artists' Alley. McGee, again, you don't leave DiNozzo's side. _Ever_!"

Tim gave him a bland look, which could have meant anything. Gibbs bit back a remark. _Will I _ever_ get through to him?!_

"Think of me as your shadow, Probie," Tony said, giving McGee a light poke. "Your better-dressed, better-looking shadow."

"Well, come on, then; let's go," said McGee, still sounding measuredly bland.

"Wait. Don't concentrate on O'Hara and Silberwald," Gibbs cautioned. "Just because they're supposedly having an affair doesn't mean that they have _anything_ to do with Latkis' murder, or with you, McGee."

"I _know that,_ Gibbs!" Tim shot back.

"Easy, Probie..."

"_You _take it easy, DiNozzo!"

Tony wrinkled his brow. Tim had not called him by his last name since they had first met.

"Sorry," Tim said, looking contrite. "I just want to get this solved..."

"As do we all," said Ziva.

They two groups split upon entering the hotel, taking different routes to the third floor. While waiting for the elevator, Tim bounced lightly in place, hands in his pockets. _He's wound tighter than a spring,_ Tony thought, but then Tim gave him a Tim-like smile, and Tony wondered if perhaps he'd imagined it all.

The Atlantic ballroom – curiously located _west of_ the Pacific ballroom – was already a circus of noise, although it was barely 11 o'clock. Ninja-fighting demonstrations were going before an appreciative audience. Some people were ignoring the ninjas, preferring to quietly roam the exhibits of comics history, certain _manga_ artists, and costumes. On the far side of the ballroom was the Artists' Alley; about half the size of the one in Rockvillecon.

Tony gave Tim a glance. "What do you want to see first? I think these ninjas are pretty cool – particularly that ninja chick there..."

"Does it _always_ have to be women with you, Tony?" Tim sighed.

Tony smiled. "That _is _my preferred state: having women be with me." Tim had sounded reasonably like himself, but when he looked away, Tony thought he saw a glimmer of cunning in Tim's eyes, and he tensed. _Is he up to something...?_

They looked at the exhibits, Tim's eyes flickering around; not appearing to really be taking in what he saw. Eventually they moved, slowly, toward Artists' Alley.

Some of the same creators seen at Rockvillecon were there: Alfred Wheekin; still signing autographs and selling _Sully's Air Force _strips. The team of guys who drew superhero men with golfball-sized heads. The women who drew women-only books. The shy man in a neat suit who wrote and drew romance comics under a sexually-ambiguous name.

And then there were the foursome that Tim had met at Rockvillecon.

Dana O'Hara was facing them, but didn't see them, as they started to approach; intent on drawing something. From 60 feet away, something made her look up suddenly. She turned white, and half rose, one hand over her heart and her hand nearest Kim Silberwald's tapping the table near him.

Tim was about to give her a slight wave, but her reaction had him puzzled. _She looks like she's seen a ghost..._

_Seen a ghost..._

_Seen someone who'd died..._

And then all memories of the lost Sunday flash-flooded over him. _"No! No, really, Tim; that's not necessary..."_ as he scrambled to pick up her spilled art tools. "_I'll meet you in the lobby just after 4:30."_ The dinner plans. _"Just follow me. The restaurant's a straight shot up the highway..."_ as they left the con. _"You're not feeling well, Tim? Just lean on me. We'll take my car. I can drive you back to D.C. and you can get a lift with someone tomorrow to pick up your car here."_ That was after dinner, and less clearly remembered. He _did_ remember that he had eaten a fine steak, but also that he'd felt really sleepy by the end of the meal.

"_Tony!"_ he hissed. "It _is_ Dana! I remember everything now! I don't know why, but she got me in her car after dinner. I was feeling very sleepy – she must have drugged me..."

Holding on to Tim's arm, since he looked ready to spring, Tony pulled out his phone. "Boss! McGee remembers! It _is _Dana, and she sees us and looks like she's about to take a powder. Silberwald, too, I think."

"Don't approach them!" Gibbs ordered. "Just watch them until we can get to you!"

"Roger that," said Tony, and hung up. They were still 60 feet away. But then Kim Silberwald got up, casually, and appeared to be making idle conversation with Dodo Runkel. But he picked up his shoulder bag and started casually ambling toward the exit on the northeast side, while Dana trotted for the southeast exit.

"Gibbs and Ziva will be here momentarily," Tony murmured. Tim was standing on his left. Tony stared at the departing Dana, and started to move slowly forward, keeping her in view.

Suddenly Tim gripped Tony's shoulder, and pointed away. _"Look!_ A _chicken!!"_

"_Where?!"_ Tony looked, saw nothing fowl, and certainly didn't see Tim's fist coming at him until a microsecond before it impacted with his chin.

Tony went down; a little stunned, dizzy, and in pain, but still conscious. He fought the room's swirl about him as he saw Tim chase after Silberwald, who was now also running. _Damn! And we always thought McGeek_ _couldn't act!_

It took a long, aggravating minute before Tony was able to grasp his phone and push the right buttons. _"Boss!_ We've got trouble! He got away from me, and is pursuing Silberwald!"

"How the _HELL_ did that happen, DiNozzo?!"

"He tricked me, and I fell for it. They've headed out of the ballroom, actually in your direction. So did O'Hara. She's out of sight, too, and headed out of the southeast entrance, I think."

"Okay. I'll head for the second floor, since there's an escalator to there near the northeast entrance to your ballroom. Ziva will track O'Hara. You scour the rest of this floor. If you catch up with McGee, hogtie him or something!"

"Got it!"

- - - - -

Ziva moved fast. She wished she'd thought to ask what O'Hara was wearing, but she'd have to concentrate on blonde hair. The crowds in the dealers' room fought against her, and so she took to aggressive action: leaping over strollers with babies, parting families in her wake, even (not by choice) crashing through a spinner rack of comic books set in a too-crowded aisle. Around her people shrieked and cursed at her; she yelled _"Federal agent!"_ and flashed her badge once as she ran.

Finally, she was out of the ballroom. If O'Hara had come this direction, fleeing, where would she go? The second floor? Out of the hotel?

Or some place where two men, whom she had seen, would not likely follow her...?

There. There was a ladies' room. Ziva pushed the door open quietly, but not _too _quietly. It should let whoever might be in there that someone _might be_ coming in.

It was a facility of moderate size; eight stalls, which seemed fitting with the presence of two ballrooms. Ziva had a theory about American women and public ladies' rooms. Practically no one used the stall closest to the door, just as no one ever sat at the very end of an empty bench: it implied aloofness. Few people also used the stall next to that; most second-stalls had a broken latch due to overuse by people not using the first stall. Stall number three, on the other hand...

She carefully walked in, her boots making tiny taps on the tiled floor. The bathroom design had the stall doors swing closed, even when vacant. Without stooping down, it would be hard to tell which stalls were occupied. She stopped before the fourth stall, counted to 15. There was no sound in the room other than the soft plopping of a dripping faucet.

Then she drew her gun, leaped and kicked open the door to stall three. And there was the blonde, crouched on the toilet seat, holding out her box cutter/knife before her and shaking terribly.

"It's over, Ms. O'Hara," Ziva said severely. Then a malicious thought hit her and she added, "You once wanted to see a gun up close. You don't want to see it any closer than this." She snatched the blade from Dana's hand and handcuffed her.

- - - - -

Tim rounded a corner, found the hallways swarming with con attendees. He fought his way down the escalator, ignoring the protests made by the people he pushed. There were even greater crowds on the second floor – panel discussions must have just ended on the hour.

_I am going to get Silberwald or die trying._ He thought about that, and his heart ached. _Yes. It's not worth going on if they get away._ _I'll always be feeling lost in that forest..._

There! There went Silberwald, into that room showing anime films! Tim careened around people; shoved in; the room was standing room only. But he recognized curly hair, glasses, and a shoulder bag, silhouetted, hustling out the opposite door. Tim did the same, again causing angry complaints from fans with stepped-on feet or outward-leaning elbows.

"Silberwald! _Freeze! Federal agent!"_ It was a fake threat, since Tim wasn't armed. Whether Kim recognized this or not, he kept going, knocking over a small child as he ran. Tim lost precious seconds trying to get around the child's family, who were comforting the tyke, even though it was apparently unhurt but crying since it saw it revel in the attention.

_Where did he go?!_ Tim's cell phone rang; Gibbs, no doubt. It would take too long to shut it off; instead he hurled it far behind him and continued running.

The only room left as the hallway ended was a door marked _No admittance – Service entrance only._ He pushed the swinging door open, in time to see Kim dodging a maze of tables and chairs, in an attempt to get to the service corridor. Tim vaulted a small cocktail round table, though he didn't hit it dead center and it tipped, and he tumbled.

Kim halted, and turned back to him as Tim was scrambling to his feet. _"You should have stayed dead!"_ Kim said, wildly, and reached into his bag. In a flash, he had out a gun, and he held it in a remarkably steady right hand. _"You're not taking me in!"_

Although Tim was only 20 feet away, he knew that a rank amateur probably couldn't hit the broad side of a barn. Tim sprang...

...and fell as gripping pain plowed through his left arm. He looked up, through watery eyes, and saw the effect of the recoil almost knock Kim over.Kim pulled himself together, and raised the gun again. And then Tim saw Dodo and James come in the far entrance. "Tim! What the heck is going on?! Why is Kim–"

_No! No! Kim mustn't get them, too!_ With a cry, Tim lunged straight at the gunman; startling him and knocking him down as the gun went off again; this time, the shot wild. Tim sat on him, and, grabbing the gun, used just enough force with his weaker right hand to knock him out with one stroke of a pistol whipping. "Weren't you paying attention when I said to use _two hands?!"_ Tim raged, nonsensically.

- - - - -

Not far away, Gibbs heard the shots, and his heart plunged to his feet. _I didn't want it to end like this. Oh, God..._ But he pressed on, and barreled into the service room. _"Freeze! Federal agent!"_ only to see Tim in control of Silberwald, and Vaughn and Runkel huddled in a corner.

Gibbs called Tony; gave him his location. Tony was there in under a minute.

"I think we're done," Tony grinned. "Ziva has Dana in custody, and reported that she's 'singing like a cannery'."

"Did you tell her that the expression is 'canary'?" asked Gibbs.

"No—I liked the mental image of a singing cannery better." He knelt beside Tim. "It's over, Probie. Both suspects are in custody. Case is closed."

Tim could feel weeks of bitterness and harshness peel off him, like husks of corn. "Case is closed," he repeated, his voice weak. "Case is closed...!" He felt incredibly light...also light-headed. He was sweating and in increasing pain. Had neither Tony nor Gibbs noticed that he was clutching his bleeding arm?!

Gibbs looked at his watch. "Well, it's after noon. Let's load these rats into the van and then go for lunch. Burgers sound good to you guys?"

"Or pizza. Too early in the day for raw fishies. What about you, Probie? Where do you want to go?"

"To the emergency room," Tim gasped. His eyes rolled back and he fell in a heap.

Tony looked down at him while Gibbs looked at his watch. "That was under three minutes," Gibbs said. "You owe me $5."

"That's really is a mean game," Tony laughed. "So this is what you team leaders do at your team leader conferences?!"

"Among other things," Gibbs said, while calmly calling for an ambulance.


	22. Chickens and Truths

On the following Monday, an hour before the start of the business day, Gibbs settled into a vacant administrative room on NCIS' second floor, where he could type, undisturbed. If computers could contain dust on seldom-used items, the Standard Form 665, "Request for Disciplinary Action", would be one of them. He entered the words he'd put together over the weekend, with mixed feelings. Then he looked the form over once, twice, three times; and finally hit _SEND_ before he could let himself change his mind.

- - - - -

Word travels fast in a tight-knit community like NCIS; news with humor fairly gallops. And the special agents had had all weekend to shop…

In the squad room that Monday morning, the atmosphere was like a festival. People came and went, many lingering. The center of action was Tony's desk, which had an ever-growing number of donated toy chickens: plastic ones, ceramic ones; big ones, little ones; rubber ones (three of these, so far); wind-up walking chickens and a wind-up rooster; a no-doubt-now-stale box of Easter marshmallow chicken Peeps; a copy of _Chicken Fancier_ magazine; a device that when turned upside-down made chicken sounds; even two cartons of eggs.

Tony sat at his desk with a look of strained patience as the gift pile grew. Beside him sat Tim, arm in a sling, bearing a huge grin. His friend Barbara sat on Tim's other side, her arm around his waist. As many people made chicken noises at Tony, many as well stopped to give Tim a kind eye or a pat on the shoulder, saying they were glad to see him. He knew they meant they were glad to see the _old_ Tim. One agent held up a piece of paper on which was printed in large letters: _Tim McGee: Killing Machine!_ With a big smile, the agent tore it into tiny pieces, and let it fall on Tony's desk like confetti.

"I think the chicken caught up with _Tim,"_ someone said_. "He's_ the one who got _winged!"_

Over the crowd's laughter, Tim gamely tried flapping his "wings", but stopped with a grimace due to the shooting pain in his injured arm.

"Looks like you laid an egg, Timmy!" another person remarked, and everyone, including Tim, laughed.

"Tim, baby, you should take better care of yourself!" Barbara whispered. "There's only one of you, and we need you!" She wound up one of the chickens and watched it waddle across the desk until it was stopped by a brood-mate in the way.

_It feels nice to be needed, instead of fighting all by myself…_

Another agent strode by, clucking as he walked. Tony eyed him until he got down range, then called out, "Brodsky! _Think fast!"_ and hurled an egg to him. Surprised, the agent caught it, only to have it break in his hands. The look on his face was priceless.

Tony cried out at the painful tug on his ear. It was Klara Schultz, one of the team leaders._ "Don't_ throw eggs in here!" she snapped. "Here, I'll help you out…" She grabbed a piece of paper from his desk, made it into a tent card, and wrote on it

_FREE!_

_Take an egg_

_and beat it!_

She walked off, chuckling.

"_Supervisors…!"_ Tony muttered, while Tim slapped his knee and laughed.

At a brief lull, Tim turned to Barbara, looking sad. "I guess I have a lot of people to apologize to…"

"Oh, baby; that's not so important. Everyone's just glad to have you back the way you were."

"They must have thought the worst of me. They called me a _killing machine_…" He blushed at the terrible memories of what he had been.

"But that was just a nickname. You didn't _kill_ anyone, though you really did frighten the daylights out of some of the criminals. You were just…oh, Joe, baby, there you are! Tell Tim no one holds anything against him!"

"We knew that wasn't you, Tim," her partner said kindly. "You were going through a tough time; that's all. And now your case is closed."

"Closed," Barbara said softly, and gave Tim a sweet hug, her flowery perfume like a veil in the air around him. She and Joe headed off to their desks as the crowd began to disburse.

Gibbs came up then, and did a double-take on seeing Tim. "I told you not to come in today!" he said, looking at Tim's wounded arm.

Tim was still smiling. "I'm not really here, boss. I just came in because I _had to_ know how the case wound up!"

"Well, I suppose you're entitled…" Gibbs took the chair Barbara had vacated, and Ziva pulled hers up, too; grabbing one of the stuffed chickens and starting to play with it.

"According to Ms. O'Hara," said Ziva, "Latkis had a fair amount of personal information on her and Silberwald, having talked to them at cons over the last couple of years. Latkis knew that Silberwald was married, but his wife never came to the cons, not being a comics fan. He knew Silberwald was a teacher at a private school where image means a lot. Knew, or dug around and found out, that he was from a wealthy family. Knew that O'Hara worked in a small town, where everyone knows each other and image also means a lot there. In January at a con in North Carolina Latkis caught them, ah, necking in a secluded area. And started blackmailing them. They couldn't face being exposed, him losing his job and his marriage, her possibly losing her job, over the scandal.

"So O'Hara was to meet Latkis at that, ah, conservation land down the street from the Rockvillecon hotel. She lured him into the woods and, before he could take the money from her, stabbed him with the box cutter."

"It's a common comics artist's tool, it seems," Tony added. "Not really even a box cutter. Artists often use lightweight models, like the trade name _X-Acto_ knife, for some fine cutting. When Dana's supply bag spilled that Sunday, she was afraid you'd seen hers and would put two and two together. So she decided they had to get rid of you."

"She asked you to dinner," said Gibbs. "And over that, she mixed a sleeping pill into your food when you weren't looking. She helped you out to her car when you could barely walk or think, then drove the other direction, to Virginia, in a further attempt to throw suspicion off her. Silberwald was hiding in the back seat of her car, under some blankets. When they got to a likely spot in the George Washington forest, she got you to lean forward, giving Silberwald a clear shot at your back with the blade. Then they kicked you out of the car, giving you a push to send you down the hill, and threw your backpack after you, then sped off. They went back to that restaurant, where Silberwald hotwired your car and drove it back to the Rockvillecon hotel, leaving it in the parking lot to add some mystery to your disappearance. O'Hara then drove Silberwald to DC, where he lives, dropping him off at a Metro station, and then went home herself. They both must have been tired at work the next day," he snorted.

"But why did she pick on _me?_ I meant nothing to her," Tim said bitterly.

"You were in the ah, wrong place at the wrong time," Ziva said kindly. "She seems to act on impulse. What better way to throw suspicion off yourself than to be the one to 'witness' a murder? When you did your gun-holding demonstration –" she mimicked it, not quite able to keep from laughing, "—she reasoned that you were in law enforcement, and she could tell her 'horrible secret' to you. You were a…'patty'?"

"'Patsy'," Tony said, giving Tim a wink. "Don't take it hard, Probie. Dana played on your sympathies. She's probably been doing that to guys all her life."

"O'Hara said Silberwald bought his gun for protection when the blackmailing started. He started carrying it to cons in his shoulder bag. Of course, that's _her_ story; he's not talking yet on the advice of counsel. His rich family bailed him out right away; _she's_ still in jail."

The Director approached. "Jethro – McGee – I'd like to see you in my office, please." She turned to go.

Gibbs ran after her; caught up with her a few feet away, but walked on with her a bit before grabbing her arm and stopping to talk. "Jen! Not now, not today. I really didn't expect him to come in today. He's having a good time now; he's _happy_ for the first time in weeks. For the love of God, Jen; wait until he's back at work, Thursday or Friday…"

"My schedule is full Thursday and Friday, Jethro," she said crisply. "I have time now, and McGee is here. We'll do this _now."_

Feeling like a heel, Gibbs beckoned to Tim, and the three of them headed upstairs.

"She must want to do a debriefing of her own on this case," Ziva speculated.

"Yeah. Or go over more comic strips with McGee," Tony laughed.


	23. Consequences

"Here is your copy, McGee," Jenny said after the three of them were seated. "I'll also email you a copy, when we're done. I will read it out loud, while you read along; that action is required. _Request for Disciplinary Action, submitted by L. J. Gibbs, Supervisory Special Agent, July 23, 2007..."_

Tim read ahead quickly, panic quickly growing in him. He'd thought he'd get smacked down for his acting out over the last few weeks, but hadn't expected it to be _this_ brutal.

Jenny was reading on. _"...on Friday, July 20, 2007, in violation of direct orders to not approach the suspect..."_

Tim could hear his father's voice, from a time when Tim was entering adolescence, torn between staying in the bosom of his loving family, and wanting to try new, perhaps disapproved, dangerous things. _"Son, you're growing to be a man. And you're starting to find that you can do what you like in this world; people aren't always going to be able to stop you like they could when you were a child. But know that every action has consequences, good or bad. If you do disobey, or do something wrong, or go against some law, be prepared to take the punishment for your wrong-doing. That's the right way to go; that's the way a real man goes. Take your lumps without complaint, learn from it, and try to be a better person when your punishment's over."_

The form went on. _"...with reckless behavior, needlessly putting his life in danger..."_

"_...refusal to cease his inappropriate actions..."_

"_...assaulting a fellow team member..."_

_Dad, I've made a mess of things. I'm glad you can't see me right now. But I'll take it without complaint, like you told me to. No matter how hard that is._

"_...recommended punishment of..."_

Tim tried to slow down his racing heart as he read the summation on the form. The recommended punishment was a week's suspension, without pay, starting next Monday. The loss of pay didn't concern him so much; with the royalties from his book, he was comfortable. But the week's suspension itself would be a hideous blot on his record. It would prevent him from getting any bonuses or awards for years. It would also block any chance for promotion for years...maybe _forever_, depending who sat on the Best Qualified panel.

_But I_ have to_ take my punishment. I'll do it without whinging. Some day – I hope – it'll be behind me...I wonder if Gibbs will want me off his team...?_

Jenny had finished reading. "Agent McGee, do you understand this document?"

"Yes, Director." _Damn my shaky voice._

"Do you have any questions? Do you want to make a statement?"

"No, Director."

"Agent Gibbs, do you have anything to add?"

He shook his head, not looking at either of them.

"All right, then," Jenny said, standing up. "I am approving this action..."

_Thanks, Dad. I'll try to be that better person..._

"...though _delaying_ the action for six months, until January 23, 2008. If in that time you have had no other disciplinary problems, McGee, this matter will be wiped off the books; completely erased from your record. Is that clear?"

Tim's heart was beating so hard he could feel his wound throbbing. "Yes, ma'am!"

"Jethro? Any comments?"

He looked exasperated. "Jenny!" Ineffectually waving his arms, he gave up, and sighed.

"Then we're settled. McGee, I'd like to speak to you alone. Thank you, Jethro." She ushered him out, and he didn't look back at Tim. _Wonder if I can get on Barbara and Joe's team...?_

The Director closed the door again. She took two bottles of water from her mini-fridge and handed Tim one, then sat down beside him on the couch. "Tim, do you understand why Gibbs filed that request?"

Surprised and flustered that she had called him by his first name – he wouldn't have believed she'd even known what it was, but of course it was there on the form – it took him a moment to be able to talk. "Uh, because I screwed up. In a big way."

"Do you really think that's the reason?"

_Huh?_ "Well, there are regs and all. If someone does something really wrong, like I did, then their supervisor has to submit a disciplinary action request, I guess." He really didn't know; never thinking he'd be in this much trouble, he'd never studied it.

The look on her face was incredulous. "Tim, we are talking about _Leroy Jethro Gibbs._ Do you really think he follows regs? For _anything?"_

"Uh...well, put like that, ma'am..."

"He doesn't. My point is – regs be hanged – Gibbs is trying to knock some sense into you. You could have been _killed_ in Alexandria, Tim. You scared Gibbs and your teammates to death. Gibbs felt that this punishment was the only thing that would make you stop. Death is so final. But I disagreed with his reasoning.

"Tim, I read over the report from Friday several times. I particularly paid attention to what _you_ did. And – and this _must not_ leave this room – I think I would have done exactly as you did."

He was dumbfounded. _"Ma'am??"_

"Oh, I was pretty reckless at times when I was an agent. You don't get promoted by always playing it safe, Tim. And I was slapped down more than once for my actions. But your thinking was dead on. And I _loved_ the bit about the chicken," she chuckled. "That was inspired, Tim. _Inspired!"_

He risked a grin. "Have you seen the collection on Tony's desk, Director?"

"Oh, yes. The wind-up rooster came from me." They both snickered, then laughed.

She grew serious again. "In putting your suspension on hold, I also considered the fact that you have had a spotless record up until now, and you were under some mental anguish at the time of the incident." She looked down, and wrung her hands. "The agency failed you, Tim. We should have helped you solve your problem before it got out of hand. But we did nothing. We _let you_ become a 'killing machine', as some people called it. That may be the way some other agencies go, but I will _not_ have that here, dammit. I'm sorry.

"You have the makings of becoming an outstanding agent, Tim. I don't want to see you lose faith in NCIS. I hope you'll have an illustrious career. You have real promise."

He left, a little shell-shocked; not having figured out whether he should be happy, sad, or remain in a state of stunned-ness.

- - - - -

Tony was working on a case, the chickens pushed to one side, when Tim reentered the squad room. Giving him a flippant grin, Tony gestured to him to pull up his chair. "You look pale, Probie. Everything go okay up there?"

"Yeah, it's cool. I think I'm just tired. I should go home soon." Tony had been a pillar all along, Tim realized. He'd share with Tony the story of this ordeal, this suspension threat that would remain over him, his sword of Damocles, for six months, and would _always_ stay in his memory...but not today. When he got back to work would be soon enough.

"Tony...I have to ask you something. Dana was _so_ beautiful. I should have known all along that she wouldn't look at me. But I just can't find _any _woman..."

"Hey! No beating yourself up, Probie! That's _my_ job!" Tony's eyes twinkled, and Tim knew he was kidding.

"No, I'm serious..."

"Look, Tim. Dana was wrong for you not because she was a knockout, but because she's a fundamentally bad person. She took advantage of you because she saw all the things in you that she's not: you're good, you're decent. you have a kind heart..."

As Tim looked away, discouraged, Tony grabbed Tim's chin and turned his head toward him. "I know what you're thinking: everyone says those are the traits of a wuss. Well, they're wrong there. I've dated a lot of women, and there must be _millions_ of women out there looking for a guy with just those features. Not every woman wants the 'bad, dangerous boy'. _Many_ want the generous, ethical man who will give them his heart, and mean it. So where's _your_ woman? Well, maybe she's just around the corner."

Out of the edge of his eye he then saw Abby rounding a corner, and he grinned, not letting Tim see him do so.

- - - - -

Gibbs came up from somewhere. "You still here, McGee? Did you take the bus in?" At Tim's nod, he added, "Come on; I'll drive you home."

He reached into one of Tony's cartons and drew out two eggs. "Here," he said, stuffing them in Tim's suit coat pockets. "Lunch is on Tony."

Gibbs and Tim walked out. "See ya Thursday, Probie," Tony smiled. "Stay well, McGee!" Ziva added, giving him an impulsive hug.

From around the squad room, a dozen or more agents stood, and chanted _"Tim! Tim! Tim! Tim!"_ Their raised fists sliced the air.

Tim laughed. It was wonderful to be himself again.

He clutched his copy of _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows_, of which he'd read about a third. "Good book?" Gibbs asked, noticing it.

"_Outstanding!"_

- - - - -

A/N: And that's it for this story! There will be a sequel, but not for awhile; other stories will come first.

Thanks to all my reviewers: your comments and suggestions kept me going. _Saaaaaa-lute!_

_Sully's Air Force_ was made up for this story; it's the embodiment of a number of military/adventure comic strips that principally ran from the 1940s to the 1960s. However, _Terry and the Pirates_ and _Steve Canyon_ were very much real strips, and the collections are well worth hunting down, both for fine storytelling and great art. (Caution: the strips from the early decades contain some ethnic and racial stereotyping that would not be tolerated today.)

The 1960s _Jimmy Olsen_ comics are also real, and are a hoot and a half.

Visit a comics convention, and see where dreams come from.


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